JBRARY 

NIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

BAN  DIEGO 


TYPES  OF 
GREAT  LITERATURE 


TYPES  OF 
GREAT  LITERATURE 


CHOSEN  BY 
PERCY  HAZEN  HOUSTON,  PH.D. 

DEPARTMENT   OF   ENGLISH, 
UNIVERSITY    OF    CALIFORNIA,    SOUTHERN   BRANCH 

AND 

JOHN  KESTER  BONNELL,  PH.D. 

LATE    PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH, 
GOUCHER  COLLEGE 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW   YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1927 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATE* 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  CARPEN  CITT,  N.  Y. 


PREFACE 

"I  cannot  be  interested  in  life;  I  care  nothing  for  human  beings  and  their  ideas  and 
emotions." 

No  one  ever  says  just  that.  And  yet  that  is  just  what  is  implied  whenever  any  one 
says,  as  young  people  frequently  say,  "  I  am  not  interested  in  literature."  The  intended 
implication  is,  of  course,  that  the  speaker  is  not  interested  in  literature  but  is  interested 
in  life,  in  people.  But  literature  is  life:  life  reflected  in  a  crystal  mirror,  life  not  of  the 
passing  crowd  merely,  but  of  many  epochs  and  of  various  lands,  the  teeming  life,  the 
many-colored  character  of  man.  Through  it  one  may  know  ultimately  some  of  the 
greatest  minds  that  the  race  has  produced,  and  through  it,  consequently,  one's  exper- 
ience of  life  and  human  nature  may  be  enriched  as  through  no  other  means. 

Literature,  moreover,  is  one  of  the  supreme  achievements  by  which  a  nation  shows 
its  greatness.  When  all  else  that  counted  for  greatness  has  returned  to  dust  and  obliv- 
ion, that  nation  is  called  great  and  famous  which  has  left  the  mark  of  its  spirit  upon 
posterity  through  great  literature.  Why  does  Europe  still  reverence  the  ancient 
Greeks?  Why  do  English  speaking  people  remember  with  pride  "The  spacious  times 
of  great  Elizabeth"?  The  answer  is  found  in  the  poets. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  impelled  the  editors  of  this  book  when  they  ransacked  the 
ages  for  proper  representatives  of  the  several  types  of  literature.  Their  problem  was, 
within  the  covers  of  one  volume,  to  supply  an  opportunity  for  direct  acquaintance  with 
masterpieces.  To  avoid  elaborate  historical  outlines  and  critical  entanglements,  while 
at  the  same  time  ranging  free  from  the  cramping  limits  of  periods  and  lands,  they  de- 
cided to  present  the  material  grouped  according  to  types.  The  drama,  the  novel,  and 
the  short  story  are  omitted  because  it  is  felt,  on  the  one  hand,  that  they  cannot  so  well 
be  represented  by  excerpts  as  some  other  types,  and  on  the  other  hand,  that  they  are 
far  more  readily  accessible  to  the  general  reader. 

This  book  is  an  introduction.  It  does  not  pretend  to  be  an  Aladdin's  cave  of  in- 
exhaustible treasure,  nor  yet  a  completely  representative  selection  of  the  world's  literary 
gems.  It  is,  rather,  a  gate,  that  gives  upon  the  main  highways  of  letters.  The  editors 
have  sought  in  each  of  the  several  types  to  present  what  is  excellent  and  representative ; 
but  they  have  sought,  also,  to  present  selections  that  would  command  the  enthusiasm 
of  impatient  youth.  They  have  kept  in  mind  the  generous  spirit  of  those  who  are 
interested  less  in  letters  than  in  life.  It  is  hoped  that  each  reader  will  find  at  least  one 
of  the  main  highways  leading  from  this  gate  sufficiently  attractive  to  pursue  beyond  it. 

ANNAPOLIS,  28  June,  1919. 


CONTENTS 


I.  EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


HCMER 

Iliad,  VI 3 

Odyssey,  XXI,  XXII  (part).  ...  12 
VIRGIL 

^Eneid,  II 26 

DANTE 

Inferno,  VIII,  IX 42 

MILTON 

Paradise  Lost,  I,  II 47 

BEOWULF 

Episode  of  Grendel's  Mother  ...  66 
THE  SONG  OF  ROLAND 

Death  of  the  Peers  at  Roncesvalles.     .       71 

NlBELUNGENLIED 

Episodes  of  Siegfried  and  Kriemhild  .  76 
MALORY 

The  Death  of  Arthur 93 


II.  NARRATIVE  POETRY 

BURNS 

Tarn  O'Shanter 101 

BYRON 

Don  Juan,  Canto  II  (the  shipwreck)  .  103 
TENNYSON 

The  Last  Fight  of  the  "Revenge"  .  .118 
BROWNING 

Herv6  Riel 120 

ARNOLD 

Sohrab  and  Rustum 122 

LANIER 

The  Revenge  of  Hamish 136 


III.  THE  BALLAD 

The  Popular  Ballad 

Edws.rd 139 

The  Three  Ravens 140 

Thomas  Rymer 140 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 141 

Bonny  Barbara  Allan 141 

Johnie  Armstrong 142 

The  Daemon  Lover 143 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne  .     .  144 

Modern  Imitations  of  the  Ballad 
KEATS 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  ....  147 
ROSSETTI 

Sister  Helen 147 


IV.  LYRIC  POETRY 

FAGS 

ANONYMOUS 

Jolly  Good  Ale  and  Old 152 

SIDNEY 

Sonnet  XXXI 152 

PEELE 

Fair  and  Fair,  and  Twice  so  Fair  .  .  152 
DRAYTON 

The  Ballad  of  Agincourt  ....  153 
SHAKESPEARE 

Songs,  and  Sonnets 154 

WOTTON 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life   .     .     .     .     15$ 

D  F  KKER 

The  Happy  Heart 158 

BEN  JONSON 

Song  to  Celia 158 

Hymn  to  Diana 158 

JOHN  FLETCHER 

Melancholy 159 

WITHER 

The  Lover's  Resolution 159 

HERRICK 

Upon  Julia's  Clothes 159 

To  the  Virgins  to  Make  Much  of  Time.    160 

To  Daffodils 160 

An  Ode  for  Ben  Jonson 160 

SHIRLEY 

The  Glories  of  Our  Blood  and  State     .     160 

WALLER 

Go,  Lovely  Rose 161 

MILTON 

Sonnet  (On  His  Blindness)    ....     161 

SUCKLING 

The  Constant  Lover 161 

Why  So  Pale  and  Wan 161 

LOVELACE 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars  .     .     162 
To  Althea,  from  Prison    .....     162 

VAUGHAN 

The  World 162 

DRYDEN 

Alexander's  Feast 163 

GRAY 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard     165 

BURNS 

Highland  Mary 167 

Bonnie  Doon 168 

Scots  WhaHae 168 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That  .     .     .     .     168 

Lines  to  John  Lapraik 169 

To  a  Mouse     ........     169 


vu 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


WORDSWORTH  PAGK 

The  Prelude,  from  Book  I     ....  170 

Tintern  Abbey 171 

The  Solitary  Reaper 173 

Ode  to  Duty 173 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior     .     .  174 

Westminster  Bridge 175 

It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening,  Calm  and 

Free 175 

The  World  is  Too  Much  with  Us    .     .175 

COLERIDGE 

Kubla  Khan 176 

LAMB 

Old  Familiar  Faces 176 

LANDOR 

Rose  Aylmer 177 

On  his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday    .     .     .  177 

CAMPBELL 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 177 

The  Battle  of  the  Baltic 178 

Hohenlinden 178 

CUNNINGHAM 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea      .     .  179 

PROCTER  ("BARRY  CORNWALL") 

The  Sea 179 

BYRON 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 180 

SHELLEY 

To  a  Skylark 180 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 181 

The  Indian  Serenade 183 

Ozymandias 183 

KEATS 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 183 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 184 

To  Autumn 185 

Hymn  to  Pan  (from  Endymion,  I)  .     .  186 
On    First    Looking    into    Chapman's 

Homer 187 

HOOD 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs    ......  187 

EMERSON 

Days 189 

LONGFELLOW 

Sonnets  (on  Dante) 189 

POE 

To  Helen 190 

Israfel 190 

The  City  in  the  Sea 190 

The  Raven 191 

The  Haunted  Palace 193 

TENNYSON 

The  Lotos-Eaters 194 

Ulysses 197 

Lyrics  from  "The  Princess"        .     .     .  198 
Lyrics  from  "In  Memoriam"      .     .     .  109 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Well- 
ington         200 

Lyric  from  "Maud" 204 

Crossing  the  Bar 204 

BROWNING 

My  Last  Duchess 205 

Meeting  at  Night 205 

Parting  at  Morning 206 

Home-Thoughts  from  the  Sea    .     .     .  206 


The  Bishop  Orders  his  Tomb     .     .     .  206 

Andrea  Del  Sarto 206 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 212 

Prospice 214 

Epilogue  of  Asolando 215 

WHITMAN 

0  Captain,  My  Captain 215 

ARNOLD 

Dover  Beach 216 

SWINBURNE 

Choruses  from  " Atalanta  in  Calydon"    .  216 

In  the  Water 218 

HENLEY 

Invictus 219 

KIPLING 

Recessional 219 

McCRAE 

In  Flanders  Fields 219 

BROOKE 

The  Soldier 220 

SEEGER 

1  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death  .  220 


V.  HISTORY 

HERODOTUS 

Marathon,  Thermopylae,  Salamis     .     .     221 
THUCYDIDES 

The  Peloponnesian  War:    Funeral  Ora- 
tion of  Pericles,  The   Corcyraean 

Revolution 241 

TACITUS 

The  Annals:  from  the  "Reign  of  Nero"     248 
GIBBON 

Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire: 
Siege,  Assault,  and  Final  Conquest 

of  Constantinople 254 

CARLYLE 

French     Revolution:    Chapters     from 

Books  V  and  VI 269 

MACAULAY 

Frederick  the  Great:  the  Treachery  of 

Frederick 280 

The  History  of  England:  Torrington 

and  Tourville 284 

PARKMAN 

The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac:  Chapters 

VII,  VIII,  IX 289 

GREEN 

A  Short  History  of  the  English  People: 

Portrait  of  Elizabeth     ....     302 


VI.  BIOGRAPHY 

PLUTARCH 

Themistocles 310 

FULLER 

The  Holy  State,  Book  II,  Chapter  xxii: 

The  Life  of  Sir  Francis  Drake.     .     323 


CONTENTS 


BOSWELL  PAGE 

The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson:  First 
Meeting  with  Johnson,  Johnson's 
Interview  with  the  King,  Johnson's 
Conversations,  Dinner  with  John 

Wilkes 327 

FRANKLIN 

Autobiography:  Concerning  Militia 
and  the  Founding  of  a  College, 
Public  Subscriptions,  Improving 
City  Streets 347 

VII.  LETTERS 

JOHNSON 358 

FRANKLIN 358 

LAMB 359 

BYRON 364 

MAZZINI 365 

LINCOLN 368 

CARLYLE 368 

STEVENSON 369 

VIII.  ORATIONS 


PLATO 

The  Apology  of  Socrates 

BURKE 

At  the  Trial  of  Warren  Hastings 
DANTON 

Dare,  Dare  Again,  Always  Dare      . 
WEBSTER 

In  Reply  to  Hayne 

MACAULAY 

On  the  Reform  Bill 

MAZZINI 

To  the  Young  Men  of  Italy  .... 
GARIBALDI 

To  His  Soldiers 

CAVOUR 

Rome  as  the  Capital  of  United  Italy    . 
LINCOLN 

The  "House  Divided  Against  Itself"    . 

The  Speech  at  Gettysburg    .... 

The  Second  Inaugural 


385 
387 
388 

397 
401 
402 
403 

405 
406 
407 


IX.  ESSAYS 

MONTAIGNE  *AGK 

Of  Repentance 408, 

BACON 

Of  Truth,  Of  Adversity,  Of  Riches,  Of 
Youth  and  Age,  Of  Negotiating,  Of 

Studies 414 

SWTJFT 

Abolishing  of  Christianity     ....     420 
A  Modest  Proposal 427 

ADDISON 

The  Object  of  The  Spectator,  Thoughts 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  The  Fine 

^  Lady's  Journal 432 

BURKE 

Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution  .     438 
LAMB 

Poor  Relations,  Grace  Before  Meat,  The 

Convalescent 448 

SCHOPENHAUER 

On  Thinking  for  Oneself 45$ 

CARLYLE 

Past  and  Present,  Book  III,  Chapters 

x,  xi,  and  xiii 463 

EMERSON 

Self-Reliance 476 

SATNTE-BEUVE 

What  Is  a  Classic? 484 

POE 

The  Philosophy  of  Composition.     .     .     491 
RUSKTJST 

Life  and  Its  Arts 498 

ARNOLD 

Sweetness   and  Light,   Hebraism   and 

Hellenism 508 

HUXLEY 

The  Method  of  Scientific  Investigation    526 
JAMES 

The  Moral  Equivalent  of  War  .     .     .     530 
STEVENSON 

jEs  Triplex 538 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 
HOMER 

When  many  centuries  have  passed  over  a  civilization,  and  its  cities  have  disappeared  like  a  mist 
on  the  horizon,  with  all  their  monuments,  their  ships,  their  stately  buildings  of  brass  and  stone — then 
there  might  be  nothing  left  by  which  that  civilization  could  be  remembered,  if  it  were  not  for  the  poets. 
For  songs  have  proved  themselves  the  most  enduring  things  on  this  earth.  Thus,  in  the  mighty  epics  of 
ancient  Greece,  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  we  have  preserved  for  us  the  Greek  life  of  about  three  thousand 
years  ago.  Through  these  poems  we  know  the  heart  of  ancient  Greece  and  what  manner  of  men  her 
heroes  were. 

Whether  or  not  Homer  was,  as  tradition  held,  an  old  blind  singer  who  wandered  from  place  to  place 
chanting  his  stories  of  the  fall  of  Troy  and  of  the  voyagings  of  the  wise  Odysseus,  need  not  concern  us. 
The  significant  thing  is  that  these  poems  have  profoundly  influenced  European  literature,  both  ancient 
and  modern,  and  through  literature  have  touched  the  lives  of  all  western  peoples;  that  they  are  not  only 
the  most  ancient  national  epics,  but  also  the  greatest. 

THE  ILIAD 

The  Iliad  is  the  epic  narrative  of  the  expedition  of  the  Greeks  against  the  city  of  Troy  to  recover 
Helen,  wife  of  Menelaus,  who  had  been  seduced  and  abducted  by  Paris,  the  son  of  Priam,  king  of  Troy. 
The  story  of  the  golden  apple  thrown  by  Discord  among  the  goddesses  at  the  wedding  feast  of  Thetis, 
the  quarrel  between  Hera,  Pallas  Athena,  and  Aphrodite  over  who  was  the  fairest  with  a  right  to  posses- 
sion of  the  apple,  their  request  that  Paris  should  make  the  decision,  and  his  awarding  of  it  to  Aphrodite, 
her  rewarding  him  with  the  love  of  Helen  fairest  of  women,  his  stealing  of  her  from  the  hearthstone  of 
Menelaus,  the  gathering  of  the  chieftains  of  Greece  to  his  aid — these  preliminaries  to  the  story  are  told 
elsewhere  or  incidentally  in  the  poem.  The  poem  itself  opens  in  the  ninth  year  of  the  siege  with  a 
quarrel  between  Agamemnon,  leader  of  the  Greek  host,  and  the  greatest  of  the  Greek  warriors,  Achilles, 
over  the  spoils  of  war,  and  the  retirement  of  the  latter  to  his  tent  to  sulk  among  his  people.  He  is  in 
the  end  forced  into  active  fighting  only  by  the  death  of  his  beloved  friend  Patroclus  who  had  disguised 
himself  in  the  armor  of  the  great  warrior  in  order  to  hearten  the  Greek  host.  Achilles  avenges  him  by 
slaying  Hector,  the  Trojan  chieftain,  and  dragging  his  body  behind  his  chariot  about  the  walls  of  the 
city.  Throughout  the  mighty  succession  of  battles,  the  heroes,  aided  by  the  gods  from  high  Olympus, 
contend  for  the  mastery  of  the  field. 

The  translation  (1864)  is  by  Edward,  Earl  of  Derby. 


BOOK  VI 

ARGUMENT 

THE  battle  is  continued.  The  Trojans  being 
closely  pursued,  Hector  by  the  advice  of 
Helenus  enters  Troy,  and  recommends  it  to 
Hecuba  to  go  in  solemn  procession  to  the 
temple  of  Minerva;  she  with  the  matrons  goes 
accordingly.  Hector  takes  the  opportunity 
to  find  out  Paris,  and  exhorts  him  to  return 
to  the  field  of  battle.  An  interview  succeeds 
between  Hector  and  Andromache,  and  Paris, 
having  armed  himself  in  the  meantime,  comes 
up  with  Hector  at  the  close  of  it,  when  they 
sally  from  the  gate  together. 

THE  Gods  had  left  the  field,  and  o'er  the 
plain 


Hither  and  thither  surg'd  the  tide  of  war, 
As  couch'd  th'  opposing  chiefs  their  brass- 

tipp'd  spears, 
Midway  'twixt  Simois'  and  Scamander's 

streams. 
First  through  the  Trojan  phalanx  broke 

his  way 

The  son  of  Telamon,  the  prop  of  Greece, 
The  mighty  Ajax;  on  his  friends  the  light 
Of  triumph  shedding,  as  Eusorus'  son 
He  smote,  the  noblest  of  the  Thracian 

bands, 

Valiant  and  strong,  the  gallant  Acamas. 
Full  in  the  front,  beneath  the  plumed  helm, 
The   sharp   spear   struck,   and   crashing 

through  the  bone, 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  warrior's  eyes  were  clos'd  in  endless 

night. 

Next  valiant  Diomed  Axylus  slew, 
The  son  of  Teuthranes,  who  had  his  home 
In  fair  Arisba;  rich  in  substance  he, 
And  lov'd  of  all;  for,  dwelling  near  the 

road, 

He  op'd  to  all  his  hospitable  gate; 
But  none  of  all  he  entertain'd  was  there 
To  ward  aside  the  bitter  doom  of  death: 
There  fell  they  both,  he  and  his  charioteer, 
Calesius,  who  athwart  the  battle-field 
His  chariot  drove;  one  fate  o'er  took  them 

both. 

Then  Dresus  and  Opheltius  of  their  arms 
Euryalus  despoil'd;  his  hot  pursuit 
^Esepus  next,  and  Pedasus  assail'd, 
Brothers,  whom  Abarbarea,  Naiad  nymph, 
To  bold  Bucolion  bore;  Buco!ion,  son 
Of  great  Laomedon,  his  eldest  born, 
Though  bastard:  he  upon  the  mountain 

side, 
On  which  his  flocks  he  tended,  met  the 

nymph, 
And  of  their  secret  loves  twin  sons  were 

born; 

Whom  now  at  once  Euryalus  of  strength 
And  life  depriv'd,  and  of  their  armour 

stripp'd. 

By  Polypcetes'  hand,  in  battle  strong, 
Was  slain  Astyalus;  Pidutes  fell, 
Chief  of  Percote,  by  Ulysses'  spear; 
And  Teucer  godlike  Aretaon  slew. 
Antilochus,  the  son  of  Nestor,  smote 
With  gleaming  lance  Ablerus;  Elatus 
By  Agamemnon,  King  of  men,  was  slain, 
Who    dwelt   by   Satnois'    widely-flowing 

stream, 

Upon  the  lofty  heights  of  Pedasus. 
By  Le'itus  was  Phylacus  in  flight 
O'erta'en;  Eurypylus  Melanthius  slew. 
Then  Menelaus,  good  in  battle,  took 
Adrastus  captive;  for  his  horses,  scar'd 
And  rushing  wildly  o'er  the  plain,  amid 
The  tangled  tamarisk  scrub  his  chariot 

broke, 
Snapping  the  pole;  they  with  the  flying 

crowd 

Held  city-ward  their  course ;  he  from  the  car 
Hurl'd  headlong,  prostrate  lay  beside  the 

wheel, 
Prone  on  his  face  in  dust;  and  at  his  side, 


Poising  his  mighty  spear,  Atrides  stood. 
Adrastus  clasp'd  his  knees,  and  suppliant 

cried, 

"Spare  me,  great  son  of  Atreus!  for  my  life 
Accept  a  price;  my  wealthy  father's  house 
A  goodly  store  contains  of  brass,  and  gold, 
And  well- wrought  iron;  and  of  these  he  fain 
Would  pay  a  noble  ransom,  could  he  hear 
That  in  the  Grecian  ships  I  yet  surviv'd." 
His  words  to  pity  mov'd  the  victor's 

breast; 

Then  had  he  bade  his  followers  to  the  ships 
The  captive  bear;  but  running  up  in  haste, 
Fierce  Agamemnon  cried  in  stern  rebuke; 

"Soft-hearted  Menelaus,  why  of  life 
So  tender?    Hath  thy  house  receiv'd  in- 
deed 

Nothing  but  benefits  at  Trojan  hands? 
Of  that  abhorred  race,  let  not  a  man 
Escape  the  deadly  vengeance  of  our  arms ; 
No,  not  the  infant  in  its  mother's  womb; 
No,  nor  the  fugitive;  but  be  they  all, 
They  and  their  city,  utterly  destroy'd, 
Uncar'd  for,  and  from  mem'ry  blotted 

out." 
Thus  as  he  spoke,  his  counsel,  fraught 

with  death, 
His  brother's  purpose  chang'd:  he  with  hi3 

hand 

Adrastus  thrust  aside,  whom  with  his  lance 
Fierce  Agamemnon  through  the  loins 

transfix'd; 

And,  as  he  roll'd  in  death,  upon  his  breast 
Planting  his  foot,  the  ashen  spear  with- 
drew. 
Then   loudly   Nestor   shouted   to   the 

Greeks: 
"Friends,    Grecian  heroes,   ministers   of 

Mars! 

Loiter  not  now  behind,  to  throw  yourselves 
Upon  the  prey,  and  bear  it  to  the  ships: 
Let  all  your  aim  be  now  to  kill;  anon 
Ye  may  at  leisure  spoil  your  slaughter'd 

foes." 
With  words  like  these  he  fir'd  the  blood 

of  all. 
Now  had   the  Trojans  by   the   warlike 

Greeks 
In  coward  flight  within  their  walls  been 

driv'n; 

But  to  ^Eneas  and  to  Hector  thus 
The  son  of  Priam,  Helenus,  the 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Of   all   the   Trojan   seers,   address'd   his 

speech: 

"^Eneas,  and  thou  Hector,  since  on  you, 
Of  all  the  Trojans  and  the  Lycian  hosts, 
Is  laid  the  heaviest  burthen,  for  that  ye 
Excel  alike  in  council  and  in  fight, 
Stand  here  awhile,  and  moving  to  and  fro 
On  ev'ry  side,  around  the  gates  exhort 
The  troops  to  rally,  lest  they  fall  disgrac'd, 
Flying  for  safety  to  their  women's  arms, 
And  foes,  exulting,  triumph  in  their  shame. 
Their  courage  thus  restor'd,  worn  as  we 

are, 
We  with  the  Greeks  will  still  maintain  the 

fight, 
For  so,  perforce,  we  must;  but,  Hector, 

thou 

Haste  to  the  city;  there  our  mother  find, 
Both  thine  and  mine;  on  Ilium's  topmost 

height 

By  all  the  aged  dames  accompanied, 
Bid  her  the  shrine  of  blue-ey'd  Pallas  seek; 
Unlock  the  sacred  gates;  and  on  the  knees 
Of  fair-hair'd  Pallas  place  the  fairest  robe 
In  all  the  house,  the  amplest,  best  es- 

teem'd; 

And  at  her  altar  vow  to  sacrifice 
Twelve  yearling  kine  that  never  felt  the 

goad, 

So  she  have  pity  on  the  Trojan  state, 
Our  wives,  and  helpless  babes,  and  turn 

away 

The  fiery  son  of  Tydeus,  spearman  fierce, 
The  Minister  of  Terror;  bravest  he, 
In  my  esteem,  of  all  the  Grecian  chiefs; 
For  not  Achilles'  self,  the  prince  of  men, 
Though  Goddess-born,  such  dread  inspir'd; 

so  fierce 
His  rage;  and  with  his  prowess  none  may 

vie." 

He  said,  nor  uncomplying,  Hector  heard 
His  brother's  counsel;  from  his  car  he 

leap'd 
In  arms  upon  the  plain;  and  brandish'd 

high 

His  jav'lins  keen,  and  moving  to  and  fro 
The  troops  encourag'd,  and  restor'd  the 

fight. 
Rallying  they  turn'd,  and  fac'd  again  the 

Greeks : 
These  ceas'd  from  slaughter,  and  in  turn 

gave  way, 


Deeming  that  from   the  starry  Heav'n 

some  God 
Had  to  the  rescue  come;  so  fierce  they 

turn'd. 

Then  to  the  Trojans  Hector  calPd  aloud: 
"Ye    valiant    Trojans,    and    renown'd 

Allies, 
Quit  you  like  men;  remember  now,  brave 

friends, 

Your  wonted  valor;  I  to  Ilium  go 
To  bid  our  wives  and  rev'rend  Elders  raise 
To  Heav'n  their  pray'rs,  with  vows  of 

hecatombs." 
Thus  saying,  Hector  of  the  glancing 

helm 

Turn'd  to  depart;  and  as  he  mov'd  along, 
The  black  bull's-hide  his  neck  and  ankles 

smote, 

The  outer  circle  of  his  bossy  shield. 
Then  Tydeus'  son,  and  Glaucus,  in  the 

midst, 

Son  of  Hippolochus,  stood  forth  to  fight; 
But  when  they  near  were  met,  to  Glaucus 

first 

The  valiant  Diomed  his  speech  address'd: 
"Who  art  thou,  boldest  man  of  mortal 

birth? 

For  in  the  glorious  conflict  heretofore 
I  ne'er  have  seen  thee;  but  in  daring  now 
Thou  far  surpasses!  all,  who  hast  not  fear'd 
To  face  my  spear;  of  most  unhappy  sires 
The  children  they,  who  my  encounter  meet. 
But  if  from  Heav'n  thou  com'st,  and  art 

indeed 
A   God,  I  fight  not  with  the  heav'nly 

powers. 

Not  long  did  Dryas'  son,  Lycurgus  brave, 
Survive,  who  dar'd  th'  Immortals  to  defy: 
He,  'mid  their  frantic  orgies,  in  the  groves 
Of  lovely  Nyssa,  put  to  shameful  rout 
The  youthful  Bacchus'  nurses ;  they,  in  fear, 
Dropp'd  each  her  thyrsus,  scatter'd  by 

the  hand 

Of  fierce  Lycurgus,  with  an  ox-goad  arm'd. 
Bacchus  himself  beneath  the  ocean  wave 
In  terror  plung'd,  and,  trembling,  refuge 

found 

In  Thetis'  bosom  from  a  mortal's  threats: 
The  Gods  indignant  saw,  and  Saturn's  son 
Smote  him  with  blindness;  nor  surviv'd  he 

long, 
Hated  alike  by  all  th'  immortal  Gods. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


I  dare  not  then  the  blessed  Gods  oppose; 
But  be  thou  mortal,  and  the  fruits  of  earth 
Thy  food,  approach,  and  quickly  meet  thy 

doom." 

To  whom  the  noble  Glaucus  thus  replied: 
"Great  son  of  Tydeus,  why  my  race  en- 
quire? 

The  race  of  man  is  as  the  race  of  leaves: 
Of  leaves,  one  generation  by  the  wind 
Is  scatter 'd  on  the  earth;  another  soon 
In  spring's  luxuriant  verdure  bursts  to 

light. 

So  with  our  race;  these  flourish,  those  de- 
cay. 
But  if  thou  wouldst  in  truth  enquire  and 

learn 
The  race  I  spring  from,  not  unknown  of 

men; 

There  is  a  city,  in  the  deep  recess 
Of  pastoral  Argos,  Ephyre  by  name: 
There  Sisyphus  of  old  his  dwelling  had, 
Of  mortal  men  the  craftiest;  Sisyphus, 
The  son  of  ^Eolus;  to  him  was  born 
Glaucus;  and  Glaucus  in  his  turn  begot 
Bellerophon,  on  whom  the  Gods  bestow'd 
The  gifts  of  beauty  and  of  manly  grace. 
But    Prcetus    sought    his    death;    and, 

mightier  far, 
From  all  the  coasts  of  Argos  drove  him 

forth, 

To  Prcetus  subjected  by  Jove's  decree. 
For  him  the  monarch's  wife,  Antsea,  nurs'd 
A  madd'ning  passion,  and  to  guilty  love 
Would  fain  have  tempted  him;  but  fail'd 

to  move 

The  upright  soul  of  chaste  Bellerophon. 
With  lying  words  she  then  address'd  the 

King: 

'Die,  Prcetus,  thou,  or  slay  Bellerophon, 
Who  basely  sought  my  honor  to  assail.' 
The  King  with  anger  listen'd  to  her  words; 
Slay  him  he  would  not;  that  his  soul  ab- 

horr'd; 

But  to  the  father  of  his  wife,  the  King 
Of  Lycia,  sent  him  forth,  with  tokens 

charg'd 

Of  dire  import,  on  folded  tablets  trac'd 
Pois'ning  the  monarch's  mind,  to  work  his 

death. 

To  Lycia,  guarded  by  the  Gods,  he  went; 
But  when  he  came  to  Lycia,  and  the 

streams 


Of  Zanthus,  there  with  hospitable  rites 
The  King  of  wide-spread  Lycia  welcom'd 

him. 

Nine  days  he  feasted  him,  nine  oxen  slew; 
But  with  the  tenth  return  of  rosy  morn 
He  question'd   him,  and  for   the  tokens- 

ask'd 

He  from  his  son-in-law,  from  Prcetus,  bore. 
The  tokens'  fatal  import  understood, 
He  bade  him  first  the  dread  Chimaera  slay; 
A  monster,  sent  from  Heav'n,  not  human 

born, 

With  head  of  lion,  and  a  serpent's  tail, 
And  body  of  a  goat ;  and  from  her  mouth 
There  issued  flames  of  fiercely-burning  fire : 
Yet  her,  confiding  in  the  Gods,  he  slew. 
Next,  with  the  valiant  Solymi  he  fought, 
The  fiercest  fight  that  e'er  he  undertook. 
Thirdly,  the  women-warriors  he  o'erthrew, 
The  Amazons;  from  whom  returning  home, 
The  King  another  stratagem  devis'd; 
For,  choosing  out  the  best  of  Lycia's  sons, 
He  set  an  ambush ;  they  return'd  not  home, 
For  all  by  brave  Bellerophon  were  slain. 
But,  by  his  valor  when  the  King  perceiv'd 
His  heav'nly  birth, he  entertain'd  him  well; 
Gave  him  his  daughter;  and  with  her  the 

half 

Of  all  his  royal  honors  he  bestow'd: 
A  portion  too  the  Lycians  meted  out, 
Fertile  in  corn  and  wine,  of  all  the  state 
The  choicest  land,  to  be  his  heritage. 
Three  children  there  to  brave  Bellerophon 
Were  born;  Isander,  and  Hippolochus, 
Laodamia  last,  belov'd  of  Jove, 
The  Lord  of  counsel;  and  to  him  she  bore 
Godlike  Sarpedon  of  the  brazen  helm. 
Bellerophon  at  length  the  wrath  incurr'd 
Of  all  the  Gods;  and  to  th'  Aleian  plain 
Alone  he  wander'd;  there  he  wore  away 
His  soul,  and  shunn'd  the  busy  haunts  of 

men. 

Insatiate  Mars  his  son  Isander  slew 
In  battle  with  the  valiant  Solymi: 
His  daughter  perish'd  by  Diana's  wrath. 
I  from  Hippolochus  my  birth  derive: 
To  Troy  he  sent  me,  and  enjoin'd  me  oft 
To  aim  at  highest  honors,  and  surpass 
My  comrades  all;  nor  on  my  father's  name 
Discredit  bring,  who  held  the  foremost 

place 
In  Ephyre,  and  Lycia's  wide  domain. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Such  is  my  race    and  such  the  blood  I 

boast." 

He  said;  and  Diomed  rejoicing  heard: 
His  spear  he  planted  in  the  fruitful  ground, 
And  thus  with  friendly  words  the  chief 

address'd: 
"By  ancient  ties  of  friendship  are  we 

bound; 

For  godlike  CEneus  in  his  house  receiv'd 
For  twenty  days  the  brave  Bellerophon; 
They   many  a   gift   of   friendship   inter- 

chang'd. 

A  belt,  with  crimson  glowing,  GEneus  gave; 
Bellerophon,  a  double  cup  of  gold, 
Which  in  my  house  I  left  when  here  I  came. 
Of  Tydeus  no  remembrance  I  retain; 
For  yet  a  child  he  left  me,  when  he  fell 
With  his  Achaians  at  the  gates  of  Thebes. 
So  I  in  Argos  am  thy  friendly  host; 
Thou  mine  in  Lycia,  when  I  thither  come: 
Then  shun  we,  ev'n  amid  the  thickest  fight, 
Each  other's  lance;  enough  there  are  for  me 
Of  Trojans  and  their  brave  allies  to  kill, 
As  Heav'n  may  aid  me,  and  my  speed  of 

foot; 
And  Greeks  enough  there  are  for  thee  to 

slay, 

If  so  indeed  thou  canst;  but  let  us  now 
Our  armor  interchange,  that  these  may 

know 
What  friendly  bonds  of  old  our  houses 

join." 
Thus  as  they  spoke,  they  quitted  each  his 

car; 
Clasp'd  hand  in  hand,  and  plighted  mutual 

faith. 
Then  Glaucus  of  his  judgment  Jove  de- 

priv'd, 

His  armor  interchanging,  gold  for  brass, 
A  hundred  oxen's  worth  for  that  of  nine. 
Meanwhile,  when  Hector  reach'd  the 

oak  beside 
The  Scaean  gate,  around  him  throng'd  the 

wives 

Of  Troy,  and  daughters,  anxious  to  enquire 
The  fate  of  children,  brothers,  husbands, 

friends; 

He  to  the  Gods  exhorted  all  to  pray, 
For  deep  the  sorrows  that  o'er  many  hung. 
But  when  to  Priam's  splendid  house  he 

came, 
With  polish'd  corridors  adorn'd — within 


Were  fifty  chambers,  all  of  polish'd  stone, 
Plac'd  each  by  other;  there  the  fifty  sons 
Of  Priam  with  their  wedded  wives  repos'd; 
On  th'  other  side,  within  the  court  were 

built 
Twelve  chambers,  near  the  roof,  of  polish'd 

stone, 

Plac'd  each  by  other;  there  the  sons-in-law 
Of  Priam  with  their  spouses  chaste  repos'd; 
To  meet  him  there  his  tender  mother  came, 
And  with  her  led  the  young  Laodice, 
Fairest  of  all  her  daughters;  clasping  then 
His  hand,  she  thus  address'd  him:  "Why, 

my  son, 
Why  com'st  thou  here,  and  leav'st  the 

battle-field? 
Are   Trojans   by   those   hateful   sons   of 

Greece, 

Fighting  around  the  city,  sorely  press'd? 
And  com'st  thou,  by  thy  spirit  mov'd,  to 

raise, 
On  Ilium's  heights,  thy  hands  in  pray'r  to 

Jove? 

But  tarry  till  I  bring  the  luscious  wine, 
That  first  to  Jove,  and  to  th'  Immortals 

all, 
Thou  mayst  thine  ofif'ring  pour;  then  with 

the  draught 
Thyself  thou  mayst  refresh;  for  great  the 

strength 
Which  gen'rous  wine  imparts  to  men  who 

toil, 

As  thou  hast  toil'd,  thy  comrades  to  pro- 
tect." 
To  whom  great  Hector  of  the  glancing 

helm: 
"No,  not  for  me,  mine  honor'd  mother, 

pour 
The  luscious  wine,  lest  thou  unnerve  my 

limbs, 

And  make  me  all  my  wonted  prowess  lose. 
The  ruddy  wine  I  dare  not  pour  to  Jove 
With  hands  unwash'd;  nor  to  the  cloud- 
girt  son 

Of  Saturn  may  the  voice  of  pray'r  ascend 
From   one   with   blood   bespatter'd   and 

defil'd. 
Thou,  with  the  elder  women,  seek  the 

shrine 
Of  Pallas;  bring  your  gifts;  and  on  the 

knees 
Of  fair-hair'd  Pallas  place  the  fairest  robe 


8 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


In  all  the  house,  the  amplest,  best  es- 

teem'd; 

And  at  her  altar  vow  to  sacrifice 
Twelve  yearling  kine,  that  never  felt  the 

goad; 

So  she  have  pity  on  the  Trojan  state, 
Our  wives,  and  helpless  babes;  and  turn 

away 

The  fiery  son  of  Tydeus,  spearman  fierce, 
The  Minister  of  Terror;  to  the  shrine 
Of  Pallas  thou;  to  Paris  I,  to  call 
If  haply  he  will  hear;  would  that  the  earth 
Would  gape  and  swallow  him!  for  great 

the  curse 
That  Jove  through  him  hath  brought  on 

men  of  Troy, 

On  noble  Priam,  and  on  Priam's  sons. 
Could  I  but  know  that  he  were  in  his 

grave, 

Methinks  my  sorrows  I  could  half  forget." 
He  said:  she,  to  the  house  returning,  sent 
Th'  attendants  through  the  city,  to  collect 
The  train  of  aged  suppliants;  she  mean- 
while 
Her  fragrant   chamber   sought,   wherein 

were  stor'd 

Rich  garments,  by  Sidonian  women  work'd, 
Whom  godlike  Paris  had  from  Sidon 

brought, 
Sailing  the  broad  sea  o'er,  the  selfsame 

path 

By  which  the  high-born  Helen  he  convey'd. 
Of  these,  the  richest  in  embroidery, 
The  amplest,  and  the  brightest,  as  a  star 
Refulgent,  plac'd  with  care  beneath  the 

rest, 
The  Queen  her  off'ring  bore  to  Pallas' 

shrine: 
She  went,  and  with  her  many  an  ancient 

dame. 
But   when   the   shrine   they  reach'd  on 

Ilium's  height, 

Theano,  fair  of  face,  the  gates  unlock'd, 
Daughter  of  Cisseus,  sage  Antenor's  wife, 
By  Trojans  nam'd  at  Pallas'  shrine  to 

serve. 
They  with  deep  moans  to  Pallas  rais'd 

their  hands; 

But  fair  Theano  took  the  robe,  and  plac'd 
On  Pallas'  knees,  and  to  the  heav'nly  Maid, 
Daughter  of  Jove,  she  thus  address'd  her 

pray'r: 


"Guardian  of  cities,  Pallas,  awful  Queen, 
Goddess  of   Goddesses,   break  thou  the 

spear 

Of  Tydeus'  son ;  and  grant  that  he  himself 
Prostrate  before  the  Scaean  gates  may  fall ; 
So  at  thine  altar  will  we  sacrifice 
Twelve  yearling  kine,  that  never  felt  the 

goad, 

If  thou  have  pity  on  the  state  of  Troy, 
The  wives  of  Trojans,  and  their  helpless 

babes." 
Thus  she;  but  Pallas  answer 'd  not  her 

pray'r. 
While  thus  they  call'd  upon  the  heav'nly 

Maid, 

Hector  to  Paris'  mansion  bent  his  way; 
A  noble  structure,  which  himself  had  built 
Aided  by  all  the  best  artificers 
Who  in  the  fertile  realm  of  Troy  were 

known; 
With  chambers,  hall,  and  court,  on  Ilium's 

height, 
Near  to  where  Priam's  self  and  Hector 

dwelt. 

There  enter'd  Hector,  well  belov'd  of  Jove ; 
And  in  his  hand  his  pond'rous  spear  he 

bore, 
Twelve   cubits  long;   bright   flash'd   the 

weapon's  point 
Of  polish'd  brass,  with  circling  hoop  of 

gold. 
There  in  his  chamber  found  he  whom  he 

sought, 

About  his  armor  busied,  polishing 
His  shield,  his  breastplate,  and  his  bended 

bow. 
While  Argive  Helen,    'mid  her  maidens 

plac'd, 
The   skilful  labors   of   their  hands   o'er- 

look'd. 
To   him   thus   Hector   with   reproachful 

words: 

"Thou  dost  not  well  thine  anger  to  in- 
dulge; 

In  battle  round  the  city's  lofty  wall 
The  people  fast  are  falling;  thou  the  cause 
That  fiercely  thus  around  the  city  burns 
The  flame  of  war  and  battle;  and  thyself 
Wouldst  others  blame,  who  from  the  fight 

should  shrink. 
Up,  ere  the  town  be  wrapp'd  in  hostile 

fires." 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


To  whom  in  answer  godlike  Paris  thus: 
"Hector,  I  own  not  causeless  thy  rebuke; 
Yet  will  I  speak;  hear  thou  and  under 

stand ; 
'Twas  less  from  anger  with  the  Trojan 

host, 
And  fierce  resentment,  that  I  here  re- 

main'd, 

Than  that  I  sought  my  sorrow  to  indulge; 
Yet  hath  my  wife,  ev'n  now,  with  soothing 

words 

Urg'd  me  to  join  the  battle;  so,  I  own, 
'Twere  best;  and  Vict'ry  changes  oft  her 

side. 

Then  stay,  while  I  my  armor  don;  or  thou 
Go  first:  I,  following,  will  o'ertake  thee 

soon." 

He  said:  but  Hector  of  the  glancing  helm 
Made  answer  none;  then  thus  with  gentle 

tones 

Helen  accosted  him:  "Dear  brother  mine, 
(Of  me,  degraded,  sorrow-bringing,  vile !) 
Oh  that  the  day  my  mother  gave  me  birth 
Some  storm  had  on  the  mountains  cast 

me  forth! 

Or  that  the  many-dashing  ocean's  waves 
Had  swept  me  off,  ere  all  this  woe  were 

wrought ! 

Yet  if  these  evils  were  of  Heav'n  ordain'd, 
Would  that  a  better  man  had  call'd  me 

wife; 

A  sounder  judge  of  honor  and  disgrace: 
For  he,  thou  know'st,  no  firmness  hath  of 

mind, 

Nor  ever  will;  a  want  he  well  may  rue. 
But  come  thou  in,  and  rest  thee  here 

awhile, 
Dear  brother,  on  this  couch;  for  travail 

sore 

Encompasseth  thy  soul,  by  me  impos'd, 
Degraded  as  I  am,  and  Paris'  guilt; 
On  whom  this  burthen  Heav'n  hath  laid, 

that  shame 
On  both  our  names  through  years  to  come 

shall  rest." 
To  whom  great  Hector  of  the  glancing 

helm: 
"Though  kind  thy  wish,  yet,  Helen,  ask 

me  not 

To  sit  or  rest;  I  cannot  yield  to  thee: 
For  to  the  succour  of  our  friends  I  haste, 
Who  feel  my  loss,  and  sorely  need  my  aid. 


But  thou  thy  husband  rouse,  and  let  him 

speed, 

That  he  may  find  me  still  within  the  walls. 
For  I  too  homeward  go;  to  see  once  more 
My  household,  and  my  wife,  and  infant 

child: 

For  whether  I  may  e'er  again  return, 
I  know  not,  or  if  Heav'n  have  so  decreed, 
That  I  this  day  by  Grecian  hands  should 

fall." 
Thus  saying,  Hector  of  the  glancing 

helm 
Turn'd   to   depart;   with   rapid   step   he 

reach'd 
His  own  well-furnish'd  house,  but  found 

not  there 

His  white-arm'd  spouse,  the  fair  Andro- 
mache. 
She  with  her  infant  child  and  maid  the 

while 
Was  standing,  bath'd  in  tears,  in  bitter 

grief, 
On  Ilium's  topmost  tower:  but  when  her 

Lord 
Found  not  within  the  house  his  peerless 

wife, 

Upon  the  threshold  pausing,  thus  he  spoke: 
"Tell  me,  my  maidens,  tell  me  true,  which 

way 

Your  mistress  went,  the  fair  Andromache; 
Or  to  my  sisters,  or  my  brothers'  wives? 
Or  to  the  temple  where  the  fair-hair'd 

dames 

Of  Troy  invoke  Minerva's  awful  name?  " 
To  whom  the  matron  of  his  house  re- 
plied: 

"  Hector,  if  truly  we  must  answer  thee, 
Not  to  thy  sisters,  nor  thy  brothers'  wives, 
Nor  to  the  temple  where  the  fair-hair'd 

dames 

Of  Troy  invoke  Minerva's  awful  name, 
But  to  the  height  of  Ilium's  topmost  tow'r 
Andromache  is  gone;  since  tidings  came 
The  Trojan  force  was  overmatch'd,  and 

great 
The  Grecian  strength:  whereat,  like  one 

distract, 

She  hurried  to  the  walls,  and  with  her  took, 
Borne  in  the  nurse's  arms,  her  infant 

child." 
So  spoke  the  ancient  dame;  and  Hector 

straight 


10 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Through  the  wide  streets  his  rapid  steps 

retrac'd. 

But  when  at  last  the  mighty  city's  length 
Was  travers'd,  and  the  Scaean  gates  were 

reach'd 
Whence  was  the  outlet  to  the  plain,  in 

haste 
Running  to  meet  him  came  his  priceless 

wife, 

Eetion's  daughter,  fair  Andromache; 
Eetion,  who  from  Thebes  Cilicia  sway'd, 
Thebes,  at  the  foot  of  Places'  wooded 

heights. 

His  child  to  Hector  of  the  brazen  helm 
Was  giv'n  in  marriage:  she  it  was  who  now 
Met  him,  and  by  her  side  the  nurse,  who 

bore, 
Clasp'd  to  her  breast,  his  all  unconscious 

child, 

Hector's  lov'd  infant,  fair  as  morning  star; 
Whom  Hector  call'd  Scamandrius,  but  the 

rest 

Astyanax,  in  honor  of  his  sire, 
The  matchless  chief,  the  only  prop  of  Troy. 
Silent  he  smil'd  as  on  his  boy  he  gaz'd: 
But  at  his  side  Andromache,  in  tears, 
Hung  on  his  arm,  and  thus  the  chief  ad- 

dress'd: 
"Dear  Lord,  thy  dauntless  spirit  will 

work  thy  doom: 
Nor  hast  thou  pity  on  this  thy  helpless 

child, 

Or  me  forlorn,  to  be  thy  widow  soon: 
For  thee  will  all  the  Greeks  with  force 

combin'd 

Assail  and  slay:  for  me,  'twere  better  far, 
Of  thee  bereft,  to  lie  beneath  the  sod; 
Nor  comfort  shall  be  mine,  if  thou  be  lost, 
But  endless  grief;  to  me  nor  sire  is  left, 
Nor  honor 'd  mother;  fell  Achilles'  hand 
My  sire  Eetion  slew,  what  time  his  arms 
The  populous  city  of  Cilicia  raz'd, 
The  lofty-gated  Thebes;  he  slew  indeed, 
But  stripp'd  him  not;  he  reverenc'd  the 

dead; 

And  o'er  his  body,  with  his  armor  burnt, 
A    mound    erected;    and    the    mountain 

nymphs, 

The  progeny  of  aegis-bearing  Jove, 
Planted  around  his  tomb  a  grove  of  elms. 
There  were  sev'n  brethren  in  my  father's 

house; 


All  in  one  day  they  fell,  amid  their  herds 
And  fleecy  flocks,  by  fierce  Achilles'  hand. 
My   mother,   Queen   of   Places'    wooded 

height, 
Brought  with  the  captives  here,  he  soon 

releas'd 

For  costly  ransom;  but  by  Dian's  shafts 
She,  in  her  father's  house,  was  stricken 

down. 

But,  Hector,  thou  to  me  art  all  in  one, 
Sire,  mother,  brethren!  thou,  my  wedded 

love! 

Then  pitying  us,  within  the  tow'r  remain, 
Nor  make  thy  child  an  orphan,  and  thy 

wife 

A  hapless  widow;  by  the  fig-tree  here 
Array  thy  troops;  for  here  the  city  wall, 
Easiest  of  access,  most  invites  assault. 
Thrice  have  their  boldest  chiefs  this  point 

assail'd, 

The  two  Ajaces,  brave  Idomeneus, 
Th'  Atridae  both,  and  Tydeus'  warlike  son, 
Or  by  the  prompting  of  some  Heav'n- 

taught  seer, 

Or  by  their  own  advent'rous  courage  led." 
To  whom  great  Hector  of  the  glancing 

helm: 
"Think   not,    dear   wife,    that   by   such 

thoughts  as  these 
My  heart  has  ne'er  been  wrung;  but  I 

should  blush 
To  face  the  men  and  long-rob'd  dames  of 

Troy, 

If,  like  a  coward,  I  could  shun  the  fight. 
Nor  could  my  soul  the  lessons  of  my  youth 
So  far  forget,  whose  boast  it  still  has  been 
In  the  fore-front  of  battle  to  be  found, 
Charg'd  with  my  father's  glory  and  mine 

own. 

Yet  hi  my  inmost  soul  too  well  I  know, 
The  day  must  come  when  this  our  sacred 

Troy, 

And  Priam's  race,  and  Priam's  royal  self, 
Shall  in  one  common  ruin  be  o'erthrown. 
But  not  the  thoughts  of  Troy's  impending 

fate, 

Nor  Hecuba's  nor  royal  Priam's  woes, 
Nor  loss  of  brethren,  numerous  and  brave, 
By  hostile  hands  laid  prostrate  in  the  dust, 
So  deeply  wring  my  heart  as  thoughts  of 

thee, 
Thy  days  of  freedom  lost,  and  led  away 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


ii 


A  weeping  captive  by  some  brass-clad 

Greek; 

Haply  in  Argos,  at  a  mistress'  beck, 
Condemn'd  to  ply  the  loom,  or  water  draw 
From  Hypereia's  or  Messeis'  fount, 
Heart-wrung,    by    stern    necessity    con- 

strain'd. 
Then  they  who  see  thy  tears  perchance 

may  say, 
'Lo!  this  was  Hector's  wife,  who,  when 

they  fought 
On  plains  of  Troy,  was  Ilium's  bravest 

chief.' 
Thus  may  they  speak;  and  thus  thy  grief 

renew 
For  loss  of  him,  who  might  have  been  thy 

shield 

To  rescue  thee  from  slav'ry's  bitter  hour. 
Oh  may  I  sleep  in  dust,  ere  be  condemn'd 
To  hear  thy  cries,  and  see  thee  dragg'd 

away!" 
Thus  as  he  spoke,  great  Hector  stretch'd 

his  arms 
To  take  his  child;  but  back  the  infant 

shrank, 
Crying,  and  sought  his  nurse's  shelt'ring 

breast, 
Scar'd  by  the  brazen  helm  and  horse-hair 

plume, 
That  nodded,  fearful,   on  the  warrior's 

crest. 
Laugh'd  the  fond  parents  both,  and  from 

his  brow 
Hector  the  casque  remov'd,  and  set  it 

down, 
All  glitt'ring,  on  the  ground;  then  kiss'd  his 

child, 
And  danc'd  him  in  his  arms;  then  thus  to 

Jove 
And  to  th'  Immortals  all  address'd  his 

pray'r: 
"Grant,  Jove,  and  all  ye  Gods,  that  this 

my  son 

May  be,  as  I,  the  foremost  man  of  Troy, 
For  valor  fam'd,  his  country's  guardian 

King; 
That  men  may  say,  'This  youth  surpasses 

far 
His  father,'  when  they  see  him  from  the 

fight, 
From  slaughter'd  foes,  with  bloody  spoils 

of  war 


Returning,  to  rejoice  his  mother's  heart ! " 
Thus  saying,  in  his  mother's  arms  he 

plac'd 
His  child;   she    to    her  fragrant   bosom 

clasp'd, 
Smiling  through  tears;  with  eyes  of  pitying 

love 
Hector  beheld,  and  press'd  her  hand,  and 

thus 
Address'd  her — "Dearest,  wring  not  thus 

my  heart! 

For  till  my  day  of  destiny  is  come, 
No  man  may  take  my  life;  and  when  it 

comes, 

Nor  brave  nor  coward  can  escape  that  day. 
But  go  thou  home,  and  ply  thy  household 

cares, 
The  loom  and  distaff,  and  appoint  thy 

maids 
Their  sev'ral  tasks;  and  leave  to  men  of 

Troy 

And,  chief  of  all  to  me,  the  toils  of  war." 
Thus  as  he  spoke,  his  horsehair-plumed 

helm 
Great  Hector  took;  and  homeward  turn'd 

his  wife 
With  falt'ring  steps,  and  shedding  scalding 

tears. 

Arriv'd  at  valiant  Hector's  well-built  house, 
Her  maidens  press'd  around  her;  and  in  all 
Arose  at  once  the  sympathetic  grief. 
For    Hector,    yet    alive,    his    household 

mourn'd, 

Deeming  he  never  would  again  return, 
Safe  from  the  fight,  by  Grecian  hands  un- 

harm'd. 

Nor  linger 'd  Paris  in  his  lofty  halls; 
But  donn'd  his  armor,  glitt'ring  o'er  with 

brass, 
And  through  the  city  pass'd  with  bounding 

steps. 
As  some  proud  steed,  at  well-filPd  manger 

fed, 
His  halter  broken,  neighing,  scours  the 

plain, 

And  revels  in  the  widely-flowing  stream 
To  bathe  his  sides;  then  tossing  high  his 

head, 
While  o'er  his  shoulders  streams  his  ample 

mane, 
Light  borne  on  active  limbs,  in  conscious 

pride, 


12 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


To  the  wide  pastures  of  the  mares  he  flies; 
So  Paris,  Priam's  son,  from  Ilium's  height, 
His  bright  arms  flashing  like  the  gorgeous 

sun, 
Hasten'd,  with  boastful  mien,  and  rapid 

step. 
Hector  he  found,  as  from  the   spot  he 

turn'd 
Where  with  his  wife  he  late  had  converse 

held; 
Whom  thus  the  godlike  Paris  first  ad- 

dress'd: 
"Too  long,  good  brother,  art  thou  here 

detain'd, 

Impatient  for  the  fight,  by  my  delay; 
Nor  have  I  timely,  as  thou  bad'st  me, 

come." 


To  whom  thus  Hector  of  the  glancing 

helm: 
"My  gallant  brother,  none  who  thinks 

aright 

Can  cavil  at  thy  prowess  in  the  field; 
For  thou  art  very  valiant;  but  thy  will 
Is  weak  and  sluggish;  and  it  grieves  my 

heart, 

When  from  the  Trojans,  who  in  thy  behalf 
Such  labors  undergo,  I  hear  thy  name 
Coupled  with  foul  reproach!    But  go  we 

now! 

Henceforth  shall  all  be  well,  if  Jove  permit 
That  from  our  shores  we  chase  th'  invading 

Greeks, 

And  to  the  ever-living  Gods  of  Heav'n 
In  peaceful  homes  our  free  libations  pour." 


THE  ODYSSEY 

The  Odyssey  is  the  story  of  the  sea-wanderings  of  Odysseus  (Ulysses)  after  the  fall  of  Troy,  and  of 
the  coming  home  of  this  much-enduring  hero  to  his  island  kingdom  of  Ithaca.  During  his  many  years' 
absence,  his  wife — the  Queen,  Penelope,  type  of  perfect  wifeliness — has  been  besieged  by  numerous 
and  arrogant  suitors,  who,  scorning  the  youthful  son,  Telemachus,  make  free  with  the  house  and  pos- 
sessions of  Odysseus,  and  urge  Penelope  to  regard  her  husband  as  dead,  and  to  marry  one  of  them. 

The  Hero  comes  to  his  home  in  the  guise  of  an  humble  stranger;  he  has  made  himself  known  to  his 
son,  and  has  been  recognized  by  his  old  nurse  and  his  faithful  dog,  but  is  unknown  to  the  suitors  and  to 
Penelope.  In  this  passage  the  climax  of  the  story  is  reached,  and  Odysseus  triumphs  over  his  enemies. 
The  translation  is  that  of  William  Cowper  (1731-1800),  published  in  1791. 


BOOK  XXI 

\ 

ARGUMENT 

PENELOPE  proposes  to  the  suitors  a  contest  with 
the  bow,  herself  the  prize.  They  prove  un- 
able to  bend  the  bow;  when  Ulysses  having 
with  some  difficulty  possessed  himself  of  it, 
manages  it  with  the  utmost  ease,  and  dis- 
patches his  arrow  through  twelve  rings  erected 
for  the  trial. 

MINERVA  now,  Goddess  casrulean-eyed, 
Prompted  Icarius'  daughter,  the  discrete 
Penelope,  with  bow  and  rings  to  prove 
Her  suitors  in  Ulysses'  courts,  a  game 
Terrible  in  conclusion  to  them  aS. 
First,  taking  in  her  hand  the  brazen  key 
Well-forged,  and  fitted  with  an  iv'ry  grasp, 
Attended  by  the  women  of  her  tram 
She  sought  her  inmost  chamber,  the  recess 
In  which  she  kept  the  treasures  of  her 

Lord, 

His  brass,  his  gold,  and  steel  elaborate. 
Here  lay  his  stubborn  bow,  and  quiver  filPd 


With  num'rous  shafts,  a  fatal  store.    That 

bow 

He  had  received  and  quiver  from  the  hand 
Of  godlike  Iphitus  Eurytides, 
Whom,  in  Messenia,  in  the  house  he  met 
Of  brave  Orsilochus.     Ulysses  came 
Demanding  payment  of  arrearage  due 
From  all  that  land;  for  a  Messenian  fleet 
Had  borne  from  Ithaca  three  hundred 

sheep, 
With  all  their  shepherds;  for  which  cause, 

ere  yet 

Adult,  he  voyaged  to  that  distant  shore, 
Deputed  by  his  sire,  and  by  the  Chiefs 
Of  Ithaca,  to  make  the  just  demand. 
But  Iphitus  had  thither  come  to  seek 
Twelve  mares  and  twelve  mule  colts  which 

he  had  lost, 
A  search  that  cost  him  soon  a  bloody 

death. 

For,  coming  to  the  house  of  Hercules 
The  valiant  task-performing  son  of  Jove. 
He  perish'd  there,  slam  by  his  cruel  host 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Who,  heedless  of  heav'n's  wrath,  and  of  the 

rights 
Of  his  own  board,  first  fed,  then  slaughter'd 

him; 
For  in  his  house  the  mares  and  colts  were 

hidden. 

He,  therefore,  occupied  in  that  concern, 
Meeting  Ulysses  there,  gave  him  the  bow 
Which,  erst,  huge  Eurytus  had  borne,  and 

which 

Himself  had  from  his  dying  sire  received. 
Ulysses,  hi  return,  on  him  bestowed 
A  spear  and  sword,  pledges  of  future  love 
And  hospitality;  but  never  more 
They  met  each  other  at  the  friendly  board, 
For,  ere  that  hour  arrived,  the  son  of  Jove 
Slew  his  own  guest,  the  godlike  Iphitus. 
Thus  came  the  bow  into  Ulysses'  hands, 
Which,  never  in  his  gallant  barks  he  bore 
To  battle  with  him  (though  he  used  it  oft 
In  times  of  peace),  but  left  it  safely  stored 
At  home,  a  dear  memorial  of  his  friend. 
Soon  as,  divinest  of  her  sex  [Penelope], 

arrived 
At  that  same  chamber,  with  her  foot  she 

press'd 
The  oaken  threshold  bright,  on  which  the 

hand 
Of  no  mean  architect  had  stretch'd  the 

line, 

Who  had  erected  also  on  each  side 
The  posts  on  which  the  splendid  portals 

hung, 

She  loos'd  the  ring  and  brace,  then  intro- 
duced 

The  key,  and  aiming  at  them  from  with- 
out, 
Struck  back  the  bolts.    The  portals,  at 

that  stroke, 
Sent  forth  a  tone  deep  as  the  pastur'd 

bull's, 
And   flew   wide    open.    She,    ascending, 

next, 

The  elevated  floor  on  which  the  chests 
That  held  her  own  fragrant  apparel  stood, 
With  lifted  hand  aloft  took  down  the  bow 
In  its  embroider'd  bow-case  safe  enclosed. 
Then,  sitting  there,  she  lay'd  it  on  her 

knees, 

Weeping  aloud,  and  drew  it  from  the  case. 
Thus  weeping  over  it  long  time  she  sat. 
Till  satiate,  at  the  last,  with  grief  and  tears 


Descending  by  the  palace  steps  she  sought 
Again  the  haughty  suitors,  with  the  bow 
Elastic,  and  the  quiver  in  her  hand 
Replete   with  pointed   shafts,   a   deadly 

store. 

Her  maidens,  as  she  went,  bore  after  her 
A  coffer  fill'd  with  prizes  by  her  Lord, 
Much  brass  and  steel;  and  when  at  length 

she  came, 

Loveliest  of  women,  where  the  suitors  sat, 
Between  the  pillars  of  the  stately  dome 
Pausing,  before  her  beauteous  face  she  held 
Her  lucid  veil,  and  by  two  matrons  chaste 
Supported,  the  assembly  thus  address'd. 

Ye  noble  suitors  hear,  who  rudely  haunt 
This  palace  of  a  Chief  long  absent  hence, 
Whose  substance  ye  have  now  long  tune 

consumed, 

Nor  palliative  have  yet  contrived,  or  could, 
Save  your  ambition  to  make  me  a  bride — 
Attend  this  game  to  which  I  call  you  forth. 
Now  suitors!  prove  yourselves  with  this 

huge  bow 

Of  wide-renown'd  Ulysses;  he  who  draws 
Easiest  the  bow,  and  who  his  arrow  sends 
Through  twice  six  rings,  he  takes  me  to  his 

home, 

And  I  must  leave  this  mansion  of  my  youth 
Plenteous,  magnificent,  which,  doubtless, 

oft 
I  shall  remember  even  in  my  dreams. 

So  saying,  she  bade  Eumaeus  lay  the  bow 
Before  them,  and  the  twice  six  rings  of 

steel. 
He  wept,  received  them,  and  obey'd;  nor 

wept 
The  herdsman  less,  seeing  the  bow  which 

erst 

His  Lord  had  occupied;  when  at  their  tears 
Indignant,  thus,  Antinoiis  began. 
Ye  rural  drones,  whose  purblind  eyes 

see  not 

Beyond  the  present  hour,  egregious  fools! 
Why  weeping  trouble  ye  the  Queen,  too 

much 

Before  afflicted  for  her  husband  lost? 
Either  partake  the  banquet  silently, 
Or  else  go  weep  abroad,  leaving  the  bow, 
That  stubborn  test,  to  us;  for  none,  I 

judge, 
None  here  shall  bend  this  polish'd  bow 

with  ease, 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Since  in  this  whole  assembly  I  discern 
None  like  Ulysses,  whom  myself  have  seen 
And  recollect,  though  I  was  then  a  boy. 
He  said,  but  in  his  heart,  meantime,  the 

hope 
Cherish'd,  that  he  should  bend,  himself, 

the  bow, 
And  pass  the  rings;  yet  was  he  destin'd 

first 

Of  all  that  company  to  taste  the  steel 
Of  brave  Ulysses'  shaft,  whom  in  that 

house 

He  had  so  oft  dishonor'd,  and  had  urged 
So  oft  all  others  to  the  like  offence. 
Amidst  them,  then,  the  sacred  might  arose 
Of  young  Telemachus,  who  thus  began. 
Saturnian  Jove  questionless  hath  de- 
prived 

Me  of  all  reason.    My  own  mother,  fam'd 
For  wisdom  as  she  is,  makes  known  to  all 
Her  purpose  to  abandon  this  abode 
And  follow  a  new  mate,  while,  heedless,  I 
Trifle  and  laugh  as  I  were  still  a  child. 
But  come,  ye  suitors!  since  the  prize  is 

such, 

A  woman  like  to  whom  none  can  be  found 
This  day  in  all  Achaia;  on  the  shores 
Of  sacred  Pylus;  in  the  cities  proud 
Of  Argos  or  Mycenae;  or  even  here 
In  Ithaca;  or  yet  within  the  walls 
Of  black  Epirus;  and  since  this  yourselves 
Know  also,  wherefore  should  I  speak  her 

praise? 
Come  then,  delay  not,  waste  not  time  in 

vain 

Excuses,  turn  not  from  the  proof,  but  bend 
The  bow,  that  thus  the  issue  may  be 

known. 

I  also  will,  myself,  that  task  essay; 
And  should  I  bend  the  bow,  and  pass  the 

rings, 

Then  shall  not  my  illustrious  mother  leave 
Her  son  forlorn,  forsaking  this  abode 
To  follow  a  new  spouse,  while  I  remain 
Disconsolate,  although  of  age  to  bear, 
Successful  as  my  sire,  the  prize  away. 
So  saying,  he  started  from  his  seat, 

cast  off 

His  purple  cloak,  and  lay'd  his  sword  aside, 
Then  fix'd,  himself,  the  rings,  furrowing 

the  earth 
By  line,  and  op'ning  one  long  trench  for  all, 


And  stamping  close  the  glebe.    Amaze- 
ment seized 

All  present,  seeing  with  how  prompt  a  skill 
He  executed,  though  untaught,  his  task. 
Then,  hasting  to  the  portal,  there  he  stood. 
Thrice,  struggling,  he  essay'd  to  bend  the 

bow, 

And  thrice  desisted,  hoping  still  to  draw 
The  bow-string  home,  and  shoot  through 

all  the  rings. 
And  now  the  fourth  time  striving  with  full 

force 

He  had  prevail'd  to  string  it,  but  his  sire 
Forbad  his  eager  efforts  by  a  sign. 
Then  thus  the  royal  youth  to  all  around — 
Gods!  either  I  shall  prove  of  little  force 
Hereafter,  and  for  manly  feats  unapt, 
Or  I  am  yet  too  young,  and  have  not 

strength 
To  quell  the  aggressor's  contumely.    But 

come — 
(For  ye  have  strength  surpassing  mine) 

try  ye 

The  bow,  and  bring  this  contest  to  an  end. 
He  ceas'd,  and  set  the  bow  down  on  the 

floor, 
Reclining  it  against   the  shaven  panels 

smooth 
That  lined  the  wall;  the  arrow  next  he 

placed, 
Leaning  against  the  bow's  bright-polish'd 

horn, 
And  to  the  seat,  whence  he  had  ris'n,  re- 

turn'd. 

Then  thus  Eupithes'  son,  Antinoiis  spake. 
My  friends!  come  forth  successive  from 

the  right, 

Where  he  who  ministers  the  cup  begins. 
So   spake   Antinoiis,   and   his   counsel 

pleased. 

Then,  first,  Leiodes,  (Enop's  son,  arose. 
He  was  their  soothsayer,  and  ever  sat 
Beside  the  beaker,  inmost  of  them  all. 
To  him  alone,  of  all,  licentious  deeds 
Were  odious,  and,  with  indignation  fired, 
He  witness'd  the  excesses  of  the  rest. 
He  then  took  foremost  up  the  shaft  and 

bow, 
And,  station'd  at  the  portal,  strove  to 

bend 

But  bent  it  not,  fatiguing,  first,  his  hands 
Delicate  and  uncustom'd  to  the  toil. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


He  ceased,  and  the  assembly  thus  bespake. 
My  friends,  I  speed  not;  let  another  try; 

For  many  Princes  shall  this  bow  of  life 

Bereave,  since  death  more  eligible  seems, 

Far  more,  than  loss  of  her,  for  whom  we 
meet 

Continual  here,  expecting  still  the  prize. 

Some  suitor,  haply,  at  this  moment,  hopes 

That  he  shall  wed  whom  long  he  hath 
desired, 

Ulysses'  wife,  Penelope;  let  him 

Essay  the  bow,  and,  trial  made,  address 

His  spousal  offers  to  some  other  fair 

Among    the    long-stoled    Princesses    of 
Greece, 

This  Princess  leaving  his,  whose  proffer'd 
gifts 

Shall  please  her  most,  and  whom  the  Fates 

ordain. 

He  said,  and  set  the  bow  down  on  the 
floor, 

Reclining  it  against   the  shaven  panels 
smooth 

That  lined  the  wall;  the  arrow,  next,  he 
placed, 

Leaning  against  the  bow's  bright-polish'd 
horn, 

And  to  the  seat  whence  he  had  ris'n  re- 
turn'd. 

Then  him  Antinoiis,  angry,  thus  reproved. 
What  word,  Leiodes,  grating  to  our  ears 

Hath  scap'd  thy  lips?    I  hear  it  with  dis- 
dain. 

Shall  this  bow  fatal  prove  to  many  a 
Prince, 

Because   thou   hast,    thyself,   too   feeble 
proved 

To  bend  it?  no.    Thou  wast  not  born  to 
bend 

The  unpliant  bow,  or  to  direct  the  shaft, 

But  here  are  nobler  who  shall  soon  prevail. 
He  said,  and  to  Melanthius  gave  com- 
mand, 

The  goat-herd.    Hence,  Melanthius,  kin- 
dle fire; 

Beside  it  place,  with  fleeces  spread,  a  form 

Of  ^length  commodious;  from  within  pro- 
cure 

A  large  round  cake  of  suet  next,  with  which 

When  we  have  chafed  and  suppled  the 
tough  bow 

Before  the  fire,  we  will  again  essay 


To  bend  it,  and  decide  the  doubtful  strife. 

He  ended,  and  Melanthius,  kindling  fire 

Beside  it  placed,  with  fleeces  spread,  a  form 

Of  length  commodious;  next,  he  brought 

a  cake 

Ample  and  round  of  suet  from  within, 
With  which  they  chafed  the  bow,  then 

tried  again 

To  bend,  but  bent  it  not ;  superior  strength 
To  theirs  that  task  required.    Yet  two, 

the  rest 

In  force  surpassing,  made  no  trial  yet, 
Antinoiis,  and  Eurymachus  the  brave. 
Then  went  the  herdsman  and  the  swine- 
herd forth 

Together;  after  whom,  the  glorious  Chief 
Himself  the  house  left  also,  and  when  all 
Without  the  court  had  met,  with  gentle 

speech 

Ulysses,  then,  the  faithful  pair  address'd. 
Herdsman!  and  thou,  Eumaeus!  shall  I 

keep 

A  certain  secret  close,  or  shall  I  speak 
Outright?  my  spirit  prompts  me,  and  I  will. 
What  welcome  should  Ulysses  at  your 

hands 

Receive,  arriving  suddenly  at  home, 
Some  God  his  guide;  would  ye  the  suitors 

aid, 

Or  would  ye  aid  Ulysses?  answer  true. 
Then  thus  the  chief  intendant  of  his 

herds. 

Would  Jove  but  grant  me  my  desire,  to  see 
Once  more  the  Hero,  and  would  some  kind 

Pow'r, 
Restore  him,  I  would  shew  thee  soon  an 

arm 
Strenuous  to  serve  him,  and  a  dauntless 

heart'. 

Eumaeus,  also,  fervently  implored 
The  Gods  in  pray'r,  that  they  would  render 

back 

Ulysses  to  his  home.    He,  then,  convinced 
Of  their  unfeigning  honesty,  began. 

Behold  him!    I  am  he  myself,  arrived 
After  long  suffrings  in  the  twentieth  year ! 
I  know  how  welcome  to  yourselves  alone 
Of  all  my  train  I  come,  for  I  have  heard 
None  others  praying  for  my  safe  return. 
I  therefore  tell  you  truth;  should  heav'n 

subdue 
The  suitors  under  me,  ye  shall  receive 


i6 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Each  at  my  hands  a  bride,  with  lands  and 

house 

Near  to  my  own,  and  ye  shall  be  thence- 
forth 
Dear  friends  and  brothers  of  the  Prince 

my  son. 

Lo!  also  this  indisputable  proof 
That  ye  may  know  and  trust  me.    View 

it  here. 

It  is  the  scar  which  in  Parnassus  erst 
(Where  with  the  sons  I  hunted  of  renown'd 
Autolycus)  I  from  a  boar  received. 

So  saying,  he  stripp'd  his  tatters,  and 

unveil'd 
The  whole  broad  scar;  then,  soon  as  they 

had  seen 

And  surely  recognized  the  mark,  each  cast 
His  arms  around  Ulysses,  wept,  embraced 
And  press'd  him  to  his  bosom,  kissing  oft 
His  brows  and  shoulders,  who  as  oft  their 

hands 
And  foreheads  kiss'd,  nor  had  the  setting 

sun 

Beheld  them  satisfied,  but  that  himself 
Ulysses  thus  admonished  them,  and  said. 
Cease  now  from  tears,  lest  any,  coming 

forth, 

Mark  and  report  them  to  our  foes  within. 
Now,  to  the  hall  again,  but  one  by  one, 
Not  all  at  once,  I  foremost,  then  your- 
selves, 
And  this  shall  be  the  sign.     Full  well  I 

know 

That,  all  unanimous,  they  will  oppose 
Deliv'ry  of  the  bow  and  shafts  to  me; 
But  thou  (proceeding  with  it  to  my  seat), 
Eumaeus,  noble  friend!  shalt  give  the  bow 
Into  my  grasp;  then  bid  the  women  close 
The  massy  doors,  and  should  they  hear  a 

groan 

Or  other  noise  made  by  the  Princes  shut 
Within  the  hall,  let  none  set  step  abroad, 
But  all  work  silent.     Be  the  palace-door 
Thy  charge,  my  good  Philcetius!  key  it  fast 
Without  a  moment's  pause,  and  fix  the 

brace. 

He  ended,  and,  returning  to  the  hall, 
Resumed  his  seat;  nor  stay'd  his  servants 

long 
Without,    but   follow'd    their    illustrious 

Lord. 
Eurymachus  was  busily  employ'd 


Turning  the  bow,  and  chafing  it  before 
The  sprightly  blaze,  but,  after  all,  could 

find 
No  pow'r  to  bend  it.    Disappointment 

wrung 
A  groan  from  his  proud  heart,  and  thus  he 

said. 

Alas!  not  only  for  myself  I  grieve, 
But  grieve  for  all.    Nor,  though  I  mourn 

the  loss 

Of  such  a  bride,  mourn  I  that  loss  alone, 
(For  lovely  Grecians  may  be  found  no  few 
In  Ithaca,  and  in  the  neighbor  isles) 
But  should  we  so  inferior  prove  at  last 
To  brave  Ulysses,  that  no  force  of  ours 
Can  bend  his  bow,  we  are  for  ever  shamed. 
To  whom  Antinoiis,  thus,  Euphites'  son. 
Not  so;  (as  even  thou  art  well-assured 
Thyself,  Eurymachus!)  but  Phoebus  claims 
This  day  his  own.    Who  then,  on  such  a 

day, 
Would  strive  to  bend  it?    Let  it  rather 

rest. 
And  should  we  leave  the  rings  where  now 

they  stand, 

I  trust  that  none  ent'ring  Ulysses'  house 
Will    dare    displace    them.    Cup-bearer, 

attend! 
Serve  all  with  wine,  that,  first,  libation 

made, 

We  may  religiously  lay  down  the  bow. 
Command  ye  too  Melanthius,   that  he 

drive 

Hither  the  fairest  goats  of  all  his  flocks 
At  dawn  of  day,  that  burning  first,  the 

thighs 

To  the  ethereal  archer,  we  may  make 
New  trial,  and  decide,  at  length,  the  strife. 
So   spake  Antinoiis,   and   his   counsel 

pleased. 
The  heralds,  then,  pour'd  water  on  their 

hands, 
While  youths  crown'd  high  the  goblets 

which  they  bore 

From  right  to  left,  distributing  to  all. 
When  each  had  made  libation,  and  had 

drunk 

Till  well  sufficed,  then,  artful  to  effect 
His  shrewd  designs,  Ulysses  thus  began. 
Hear,  0  ye  suitors  of  the  illustrious 

Queen, 
My  bosom's  dictates.     But  I  shall  entreat 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Chiefly  Eurymachus  and  the  godlike  youth 
Antinoiis,  whose  advice  is  wisely  giv'n. 
Tamper  no  longer  with  the  bow,  but 

leave 

The  matter  with  the  Gods,  who  shall  de- 
cide 
The  strife  to-morrow,  fav'ring  whom  they 

will. 
Meantime,  grant  me  the  polish'd  bow,  that 

I 

May  trial  make  among  you  of  my  force, 
If  I  retain  it  still  in  like  degree 
As  erst,  or  whether  wand'ring  and  defect 
Of  nourishment  have  worn  it  all  away. 
He  said,  whom  they  with  indignation 

heard 
Extreme,  alarm'd  lest  he  should  bend  the 

bow, 
And  sternly  thus  Antinoiis  replied. 

Desperate   vagabond!    ah   wretch    de- 
prived 

Of  reason  utterly!  art  not  content? 
Esteem'st  it  not  distinction  proud  enough 
To  feast  with  us  the  nobles  of  the  land? 
None  robs  thee  of  thy  share,  thou  wit- 

nessest 
Our  whole  discourse,  which,  save  thyself 

alone, 

No  needy  vagrant  is  allow'd  to  hear. 
Thou  art  befool'd  by  wine,  as  many  have 

been, 
Wide-throated  drinkers,  unrestrain'd  by 

rule. 

Wine  in  the  mansion  of  the  mighty  Chief 
Pirithoiis,  made  the  valiant  Centaur  mad, 
Eurytion,  at  the  Lapithsean  feast. 
He    drank    to    drunkenness,    and    being 

drunk, 

Committed  great  enormities  beneath 
Pirithoiis'  roof,  and  such  as  fill'd  with  rage 
The  Hero-guests,  who  therefore  by  his  feet 
Dragg'd  him  right  through  the  vestibule, 

amerced 

Of  nose  and  ears,  and  he  departed  thence 
Provoked  to  frenzy  by  that  foul  disgrace. 
Whence  war  between  the  human  kind 

arose 

And  the  bold  Centaurs — but  he  first  in- 
curred 

By  his  ebriety  that  mulct  severe. 
Great  evil,  also,  if  thou  bend  the  bow, 
To  thee  I  prophesy;  for  thou  shalt  find 


Advocate  or  protector  none  in  all 

This  people,  but  we  will  dispatch  thee 

hence 

Incontinent  on  board  a  sable  bark 
To  Echetus,  the  scourge  of  human  kind, 
From  whom  is  no  escape.     Drink  then  in 

peace, 
And  contest  shun  with  younger  men  than 

thou. 

Him  answer'd,  then,  Penelope  discrete. 
Antinoiis!  neither  seemly  were  the  deed 
Nor  just,  to  maim  or  harm  whatever  guest 
Whom  here  arrived  Telemachus  receives. 
Canst  thou  expect,  that  should  he  even 

prove 
Stronger  than  ye,  and  bend  the  massy 

bow, 

He  will  conduct  me  hence  to  his  own  home, 
And  make  me  his  own  bride?    No  such 

design 
His  heart  conceives,  or  hope;  nor  let  a 

dread 

So  vain  the  mind  of  any  overcloud 
Who  banquets  here,  since  it  dishonors  me. 
So  she;  to  whom  Eurymachus  reply 'd, 
Offspring  of  Polybus.  O  matchless  Queen ! 
Icarius'  prudent  daughter!  none  suspects 
That  thou  wilt  wed  with  him;  a  mate  so 

mean 
Should  ill  become  thee;  but  we  fear  the 

tongues 

Of  either  sex,  lest  some  Achaian  say 
Hereafter  (one  inferior  far  to  us), 
Ah!  how  unworthy  are  they  to  compare 
With  him  whose  wife  they  seek!  to  bend 

his  bow 

Pass'd  all  their  pow'r,  yet  this  poor  vaga- 
bond, 

Arriving  from  what  country  none  can  tell, 
Bent  it  with  ease,  and  shot  through  all  the 

rings. 
So  will  they  speak,  and  so  shall  we  be 

shamed. 

Then  answer,  thus,  Penelope  return'd. 
No  fair  report,  Eurymachus,  attends 
Their  names  or  can,  who,  riotous  as  ye, 
The  house  dishonor,   and   consume   the 

wealth 
Of  such  a  Chief.    Why  shame  ye  thus 

yourselves  ? 

The  guest  is  of  athletic  frame,  well  form'd, 
And  large  of  limb; he  boas tshim also  sprung 


i8 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


From  noble  ancestry.    Come  then — con- 
sent— 
Give  him  the  bow,  that  we  may  see  the 

proof; 

For  thus  I  say,  and  thus  will  I  perform; 
Sure  as  he  bends  it,  and  Apollo  gives 
To  him  that  glory,  tunic  fair  and  cloak 
Shall  be  his  meed  from  me,  a  javelin  keen 
To  guard  him  against  men  and  dogs,  a 

sword 

Of  double  edge,  and  sandals  for  his  feet, 
And  I  will  send  him  whither  most  he 

would. 

Her  answer'd  then  prudent  Telemachus. 
Mother — the  bow  is  mine;  and,  save  my- 
self, 

No  Greek  hath  right  to  give  it,  or  refuse. 
None  who  hi  rock-bound  Ithaca  possess 
Dominion,  none  in  the  steed-pastured  isles 
Of  Elis,  if  I  chose  to  make  the  bow 
His  own  for  ever,  should  that  choice  con- 
trol. 

But  thou  into  the  house  repairing,  ply 
Spindle  and  loom,  thy  province,  and  enjoin 
Diligence  to  thy  maidens;  for  the  bow 
Is  man's  concern  alone,  and  shall  be  mine 
Especially,  since  I  am  master  here. 
She  heard  astonish'd,  and  the  prudent 

speech 

Reposing  of  her  son  deep  in  her  heart, 
Withdrew;  then  mounting  with  her  female 

train 

To  her  superior  chamber,  there  she  wept 
Her  lost  Ulysses,  till  Minerva  bathed 
With  balmy  dews  of  sleep  her  weary  lids. 
And  now  the  noble  swine-herd  bore  the 

bow 

Toward  Ulysses,  but  with  one  voice  all 
The  suitors,  clamorous,  reproved  the  deed, 
Of   whom   a   youth,    thus,   insolent   ex- 

claim'd. 
Thou  clumsy  swine-herd,  whither  bear'st 

the  bow, 
Delirious  wretch?  the  hounds  that  thou 

hast  train'd 

Shall  eat  thee  at  thy  solitary  home 
Ere  long,  let  but  Apollo  prove,  at  last, 
Propitious  to  us,  and  the  Pow'rs  of  heav'n. 
So  they,  whom  hearing  he  replaced  the 

bow 

Where  erst  it  stood,  terrified  at  the  sound 
Of  such  loud  menaces;  on  the  other  side 


Telemachus  as  loud  assail'd  his  ear. 
Friend!  forward  with  the  bow;  or  soon 

repent 

That  thou  obey'dst  the  many.     I  will  else 
With  huge  stones  drive  thee,  younger  as 

I  am, 
Back  to  the  field.     My  strength  surpasses 

thine. 

I  would  to  heav'n  that  I  in  force  excell'd 
As  far,  and  prowess,  every  suitor  here! 
So  would  I  soon  give  rude  dismission  hence 
To  some,  who  live  but  to  imagine  harm. 
He  ceased,   whose  words   the  suitors 

laughing  heard. 
And,  for  their  sake,  in  part  their  wrath 

resign'd 

Against  Telemachus ;  then  through  the  hall 
Eumaeus  bore,  and  to  Ulysses'  hand 
Consign'd    the    bow;    next,    summoning 

abroad 
The  ancient  nurse,  he  gave  her  thus  in 

charge. 

It  is  the  pleasure  of  Telemachus, 
Sage  Euryclea!  that  thou  key  secure 
The  doors;  and  should  you  hear,  per- 
chance, a  groan 

Or  other  noise  made  by  the  Princes  shut 
Within  the  hall,  let  none  look,  curious, 

forth, 
But  each  in  quietness  pursue  her  work. 

So  he;  nor  flew  his  words  useless  away, 
But  she,  incontinent,  shut  fast  the  doors. 
Then,  noiseless,  sprang  Philcetius  forth, 

who  closed 

The  portals  also  of  the  palace-court. 
A  ship-rope  of  ^Egyptian  reed,  it  chanced, 
Lay  in  the  vestibule;  with  that  he  braced 
The  doors  securely,  and  re-entring  fill'd 
Again  his  seat,  but  watchful,  eyed  his 

Lord. 

He,  now,  assaying  with  his  hand  the  bow, 
Made  curious  trial  of  it  ev'ry  way, 
And  turn'd  it  on  all  sides,  lest  haply  worms 
Had  in  its  master's  absence  drill'd  the 

horn. 

Then  thus  a  suitor  to  his  next  remark'd. 
He   hath   an   eye,    methinks,    exactly 

skill'd 
In  bows,  and  steals  them;  or  perhaps,  at 

home, 

Hath  such  himself,  or  feels  a  strong  desire 
To  make  them;  so  inquisitive  the  rogue 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Adept  in  mischief,  shifts  it  to  and  fro! 
To  whom  another,  insolent,  replied. 
I  wish  him  like  prosperity  in  all 
His  efforts,  as  attends  his  effort  made 
On  this  same  bow,  which  he  shall  never 

bend. 

So  they;  but  when  the  wary  Hero  wise 
Had  made  his  hand  familiar  with  the  bow 
Poising  it  and  examining — at  once — 
As  when  in  harp  and  song  adept,  a  bard 
Unlab'ring  strains  the  chord  to  a  new  lyre, 
The  twisted  entrails  of  a  sheep  below 
With  fingers  nice  inserting,  and  above, 
With  such  facility  Ulysses  bent 
His  own  huge  bow,  and  with  his  right  hand 

play'd 
The  nerve,  which  in  its  quick  vibration 

sang 

Clear  as  the  swallow's  voice.     Keen  an- 
guish seized 
The  suitors,  wan  grew  ev'ry  cheek,  and 

Jove 

Gave  him  his  rolling  thunder  for  a  sign. 
That  omen,  granted  to  him  by  the  son 
Of  wily  Saturn,  with  delight  he  heard. 
He  took  a  shaft  that  at  the  table-side 
Lay  ready  drawn;  but  in  his  quiver's  womb 
The  rest  yet  slept,  by  those  Achaians  proud 
To  be,  ere  long,  experienced.    True  he 

lodg'd 

The  arrow  on  the  centre  of  the  bow, 
And,  occupying  still  his  seat,  drew  home 
Nerve    and    notch'd    arrow-head;    with 

stedfast  sight 
He  aimed  and  sent  it;  right  through  all 

the  rings 
From  first  to  last  the  steel-charged  weapon 

flew 

Issuing  beyond,  and  to  his  son  he  spake. 
Thou  need'st  not  blush,  young  Prince, 

to  have  received 

A  guest  like  me ;  neither  my  arrow  swerved, 
Nor  labor 'd  I  long  time  to  draw  the  bow; 
My  strength  is  unimpair'd,  not  such  as 

these 

In  scorn  affirm  it.    But  the  waning  day 
Calls  us  to  supper,  after  which  succeeds 
Jocund  variety,  the  song,  the  harp, 
With  all  that  heightens  and  adorns  the 

feast. 

He  said,  and  with  his  brows  gave  him 
the  sign. 


At  once  the  son  of  the  illustrious  Chief 
Slung  his  keen  faulchion,  grasp'd  his  spear, 

and  stood 
Arm'd  bright  for  battle  at  his  father's  side. 

BOOK  XXII 

ARGUMENT 

ULYSSES,  with  some  little  assistance  from  Tele- 
machus,  Eumaeus  and  Philcetius,  slays  all  the 
suitors 

THEN,  girding  up  his  rags,  Ulysses  sprang 
With  bow  and  full-charged  quiver  to  the 

door; 
Loose  on  the  broad  stone  at  his  feet  he 

pour'd 

His  arrows,  and  the  suitors,  thus,  bespake. 
This  prize,  though  difficult,  hath  been 

achieved. 

Now  for  another  mark  which  never  man 
Struck  yet,  but  I  will  strike  it  if  I  may, 
And  if  Apollo  make  that  glory  mine. 

He  said,  and  at  Antinoiis  aimed  direct 
A  bitter  shaft;  he,  purposing  to  drink, 
Both  hands  advanced  toward  the  golden 

cup 
Twin-ear'd,  nor  aught  suspected  death  so 

nigh. 

For  who,  at  the  full  banquet,  could  suspect 
That  any  single  guest,  however  brave, 
Should  plan  his  death,  and  execute  the 

blow? 

Yet  him  Ulysses  with  an  arrow  pierced 
Full  in  the  throat,  and  through  his  neck 

behind 
Started  the  glitt'ring  point.    Aslant  he 

droop'd; 
Down  fell  the  goblet;  through  his  nostrils 

flew 
The  spouted  blood,  and  spurning  with  his 

foot 
The  board,  he  spread  his  viands  in  the 

dust. 

Confusion,  when  they  saw  Antinoiis  fall'n, 
Seized  all  the  suitors;  from  the  thrones 

they  sprang, 
Flew  ev'ry  way,  and  on  all  sides  explored 
The  palace-walls,  but  neither  sturdy  lance 
As  erst,  nor  buckler  could  they  there  dis- 
cern, 


30 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Then,  furious,  to  Ulysses  thus  they  spake. 
Thy  arrow,  stranger,  was  ill-aimed;  a 

man 

Is  no  just  mark.    Thou  never  shalt  dispute 
Prize  more.     Inevitable  death  is  thine. 
For  thou  hast  slain  a  Prince  noblest  of  all 
In  Ithaca,  and  shalt  be  vultures'  food. 
Various  their  judgments  were,  but  none 

believed 

That  he  had  slain  him  wittingly,  nor  saw 
Th'  infatuate  men  fate  hov'ring  o'er  them 

all. 
Then  thus  Ulysses,  louring  dark,  replied. 

O  dogs !  not  fearing  aught  my  safe  return 
From  Ilium,  ye  have  shorn  my  substance 

close, 

Lain  with  my  women  forcibly,  and  sought, 
While  yet  I  lived,  to  make  my  consort 

yours, 

Heedless  of  the  inhabitants  of  heav'n 
Alike,  and  of  the  just  revenge  of  man. 
But  death  is  on  the  wing;  death  for  you  all. 
He  said;  their  cheeks  all  faded  at  the 

sound, 
And  each  with  sharpen'd  eyes  search'd 

ev'ry  nook 

For  an  escape  from  his  impending  doom. 
Till  thus,  alone,  Eurymachus  replied. 

If  thou  indeed  art  he,  the  mighty  Chief 
Of  Ithaca  return'd,  thou  hast  rehears'd 
With  truth  the  crimes  committed  by  the 

Greeks 
Frequent,  both  in  thy  house  and  in  thy 

field. 

But  he,  already,  who  was  cause  of  all, 
Lies  slain,  Antinoiis,  he  thy  palace  fill'd 
With  outrage,  not  solicitous  so  much 
To  win  the  fan-  Penelope,  but  thoughts 
Far  diff'rent  framing,   which   Saturnian 

Jove 

Hath  baffled  all;  to  rule,  himself,  supreme 
In  noble  Ithaca,  when  he  had  kill'd 
By  an  insidious  stratagem  thy  son. 
But  he  is  slain.    Now  therefore,  spare 

thy  own, 

Thy  people;  public  reparation  due 
Shall  sure  be  thine,  and  to  appease  thy 

wrath 
For  all  the  waste  that,  eating,  drinking 

here 
We  have  committed,  we  will  yield  thee, 

each. 


Full  twenty  beeves,  gold  paying  thee  beside 
And  brass,  till  joy  shall  fill  thee  at  the 

sight, 

However  just  thine  anger  was  before. 
To  whom  Ulysses,  frowning  stern,  re- 
plied. 

Eurymachus,  would  ye  contribute  each 
His  whole  inheritance,  and  other  sums 
Still  add  beside,  ye  should  not,  even  so, 
These  hands  of  mine  bribe  to  abstain  from 

blood, 

Till  ev'ry  suitor  suffer  for  his  wrong. 
Ye  have  your  choice.     Fight  with  me,  or 

escape 

(Whoever  may)  the  terrors  of  his  fate, 
But  ye  all  perish,  if  my  thought  be  true. 
He  ended,  they  with  trembling  knees 

and  hearts 
All  heard,  whom  thus  Eurymachus  ad- 

dress'd. 
To  your  defence,  my  friends!  for  respite 

none 

Will  he  to  his  victorious  hands  afford, 
But,  arm'd  with  bow  and  quiver,  will  dis- 
patch 
Shafts  from  the  door  till  he  have  slain  us 

all. 
Therefore  to  arms — draw  each  his  sword — 

oppose 

The  tables  to  his  shafts,  and  all  at  once 
Rush  on  him;  that,  dislodging  him  at  least 
From  portal  and  from  threshold,  we  may 

give 

The  city  on  all  sides  a  loud  alarm, 
So  shall  this  archer  soon  have  shot  his  last. 
Thus  saying,  he  drew  his  brazen  faul- 

chion  keen 

Of  double  edge,  and  with  a  dreadful  cry 
Sprang  on  him;  but  Ulysses  with  a  shaft 
In  that  same  moment  through  his  bosom 

driv'n 
Transfix'd  his  liver,  and  down  dropp'd  his 

sword. 

He,  staggering  around  his  table,  fell 
Convolv'd  in  agonies,  and  overturn'd 
Both  food  and  wine;  his  forehead  smote 

the  floor; 
Woe  fill'd  his  heart,  and  spurning  with  his 

heels 

His  vacant  seat,  he  shook  it  till  he  died. 
Then,  with  his  faulchion  drawn,  Amphi- 

nomus 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


21 


Advanced  to  drive  Ulysses  from  the  door, 
And  fierce  was  his  assault;  but,  from  be- 
hind, 

Telemachus  between  his  shoulders  fix'd 
A  brazen  lance,  and  urged  it  through  his 

breast. 
Full  on  his  front,  with  hideous  sound,  he 

fell. 

Leaving  the  weapon  planted  in  his  spine 
Back  flew  Telemachus,  lest,  had  he  stood 
Drawing  it  forth,  some  enemy,  perchance, 
Should  either  pierce  him  with  a  sudden 

thrust 
Oblique,  or  hew  him  with  a  downright 

edge. 

Swift,  therefore,  to  his  father's  side  he  ran, 
Whom  reaching,  in  wing'd  accents  thus  he 

said. 
My  father!    I  will  now  bring  thee  a 

shield, 

An  helmet,  and  two  spears;  I  will  enclose 
Myself  in  armor  also,  and  will  give 
Both  to  the  herdsmen  and  Eumaeus  arms 
Expedient  now,  and  needful  for  us  all. 
To  whom  Ulysses,  ever-wise,  replied. 
Run ;  fetch  them,  while  I  yet  have  arrows 

left, 

Lest,  single,  I  be  justled  from  the  door. 
He  said,  and,  at  his  word,  forth  went 

the  Prince, 

Seeking  the  chamber  where  he  had  secured 
The  armor.    Thence  he  took  four  shields, 

eight  spears, 
With  four  hair-crested  helmets,  charged 

with  which 

He  hasted  to  his  father's  side  again, 
And,  arming  first  himself,  furnish'd  with 

arms 

His  two  attendants.    Then,  all  clad  alike 
In  splendid  brass,  beside  the  dauntless 

Chief 

Ulysses,  his  auxiliars  firm  they  stood. 
He,  while  a  single  arrow  unemploy'd 
Lay  at  his  foot,  right-aiming,  ever  pierced 
Some  suitor  through,  and  heaps  on  heaps 

they  fell. 

But  when  his  arrows  fail'd  the  royal  Chief, 
His  bow  reclining  at  the  portal's  side 
Against  the  palace-wall,  he  slung,  himself, 
A  four-fold  buckler  on  his  arm,  he  fix'd 
A  casque  whose  crest  wav'd  awful  o'er  his 

brows 


On  his  illustrious  head,  and  fill'd  his  gripe 

With  two  stout  spears,  well-headed,  both, 

with  brass. 
There  was  a  certain  postern  in  the  wall 

At  the  gate-side,  the  customary  pass 

Into  a  narrow  street,  but  barr'd  secure. 

Ulysses  bade  his  faithful  swine-herd  watch 

That  egress,  station'd  near  it,  for  it  own'd 

One  sole  approach;  then  Agelalis  loud 

Exhorting  all  the  suitors,  thus  exclaim'd. 
Oh  friends,  will  none,  ascending  to  the 
door 

Of  yonder  postern,  summon  to  our  aid 

The  populace,  and  spread  a  wide  alarm? 

So  shall  this  archer  soon  have  shot  his  last. 
To  whom  the  keeper  of  the  goats  replied, 

Melanthius.    Agelaiis!    Prince  renown'd! 

That  may  not  be.    The  postern  and  the 
gate 

Neighbor  too  near  each  other,  and  to  force 

The  narrow  egress  were  a  vain  attempt; 

One  valiant  man  might  thence  repulse  us 
all. 

But  come — myself  will  furnish  you  with 
arms 

Fetch'd  from  above;  for  there,  as  I  sup- 
pose, 

(And  not  elsewhere)  Ulysses  and  his  son 

Have  hidden  them,  and  there  they  shall 

be  found. 

So  spake  Melanthius,  and,  ascending, 
sought 

Ulysses'  chambers  through  the  winding 
stairs 

And  gall'ries  of  the  house.    Twelve  buck- 
lers thence 

He  took,  as  many  spears,  and  helmets 
bright 

As  many,  shagg'd  with  hair,  then  swift  re- 
turn'd 

And  gave  them  to  his  friends.    Trembled 
the  heart 

Of  brave  Ulysses,  and  his  knees,  at  sight 

Of  his  opposers  putting  armor  on, 

And  shaking  each  his  spear;  arduous  in- 
deed 

Now  seem'd  his  task,  and  in  wing'd  ac- 
cents brief 

Thus  to  his  son  Telemachus  he  spake. 
Either  some  woman  of  our  train  con- 
trives 

Hard  battle  for  us,  furnishing  with  arms 


22 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  suitors,  or  Melanthius  arms  them  all. 

Him  answer'd  then  Telemachus  discrete. 

Father,  this  fault  was  mine,  and  be  it 

charged 

On  none  beside;  I  left  the  chamber-door 
Unbarr'd,    which,    more   attentive    than 

myself, 
Their  spy  perceived.    But  haste,  Eumaeus, 

shut 
The  chamber-door,   observing  well,   the 

while, 

If  any  women  of  our  train  have  done 
This  deed,  or  whether,  as  I  more  suspect, 
Melanthius,  Dolius'  son,  have  giv'n  them 

arms. 
Thus  mutual  they  conferr'd;  meantime, 

again 

Melanthius  to  the  chamber  flew  in  quest 
Of  other  arms.    Eumaeus,  as  he  went, 
Mark'd  him,  and  to  Ulysses  thus  he  spake. 
Laertes'  noble  son,  for  wiles  renown'd! 
Behold,  the  traitor,  whom  ourselves  sup- 
posed, 

Seeks  yet  again  the  chamber !   Tell  me  plain, 
Shall  I,  should  I  superior  prove  in  force, 
Slay  him,  or  shall  I  drag  him  thence  to 

thee, 

That  he  may  suffer  at  thy  hands  the  doom 
Due  to  his  treasons  perpetrated  oft 
Against  thee,  here,  even  in  thy  own  house? 
Then  answer  thus  Ulysses  shrewd  re- 

turn'd. 

I,  with  Telemachus,  will  here  immew 
The  lordly  suitors  close,  rage  as  they  may. 
Ye  two,  the  while,  bind  fast  Melanthius' 

hands 
And  feet  behind  his  back,  then  cast  him 

bound 

Into  the  chamber,  and  (the  door  secured) 
Pass  underneath  his  arms  a  double  chain, 
And  by  a  pillar's  top  weigh  him  aloft 
Till  he  approach  the  rafters,  there  to  en- 
dure, 
Living  long  time,  the  mis'ries  he  hath 

earned. 
He  spake;  they  prompt  obey'd;  together 

both 
They   sought    the   chamber,    whom   the 

wretch  within 

Heard  not,  exploring  ev'ry  nook  for  arms. 
They  watching  stood  the  door,  from  which, 

at  length, 


Forth  came  Melanthius,  bearing  in  one 

hand 

A  casque,  and  in  the  other  a  broad  shield 
Time-worn  and  chapp'd   with   drought, 

which  in  his  youth 

Warlike  Laertes  had  been  wont  to  bear. 
Long  time  neglected  it  had  lain,  till  age 
Had  loosed  the  sutures  of  its  bands.    At 

once 
Both,  springing  on  him,  seized  and  drew 

him  hi 

Forcibly  by  his  locks,  then  cast  him  down 
Prone  on  the  pavement,  trembling  at  his 

fate. 

With  painful  stricture  of  the  cord  his  hands 
They  bound  and  feet  together  at  his  back, 
As  their  illustrious  master  had  enjoined, 
Then  weigh'd  him  with  a  double  chain( 

aloft 

By  a  tall  pillar  to  the  palace-roof, 
And  thus,  deriding  him,  Eumaeus  spake. 
Now,  good  Melanthius,  on  that  fleecy 

bed 
Reclined,  as  well  befits  thee,  thou  wilt 

watch 

All  night,  nor  when  the  golden  dawn  for- 
sakes 
The  ocean  stream,  will  she  escape  thine 

eye, 

But  thou  wilt  duly  to  the  palace  drive 
The   fattest  goats,   a   banquet   for   thy 

friends. 
So  saying,  he  left  him  in  his  dreadful 

sling. 
Then,  arming  both,  and  barring  fast  the 

door, 

They  sought  brave  Laertiades  again. 
And  now,  courageous  at  the  portal  stood 
Those  four,  by  numbers  in  the  interior 

house 

Opposed  of  adversaries  fierce  hi  arms, 
When  Pallas,  in  the  form  and  with  the 

voice 

Approach'd  of  Mentor,  whom  Laertes'  son 

Beheld,  and  joyful  at  the  sight,  exclaim'd. 

Help,  Mentor!  help — now  recollect  a 

friend 
And  benefactor,  born  when   thou  wast 

born. 

So  he,  not  unsuspicious  that  he  saw 
Pallas,  the  heroine  of  heav'n.    Meantime 
The  suitors  filTd  with  menaces  the  dome, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


And  Agelaiis,  first,  Damastor's  son, 

In  accents  harsh  rebuked  the   Goddess 

thus. 
Beware,  O  Mentor!  that  he  lure  thee 

not 

To  oppose  the  suitors  and  to  aid  himself. 
For  thus  will  we.     Ulysses  and  his  son 
Both  slain,  in  vengeance  of  thy  purpos'd 

deeds 

Against  us,  we  will  slay  thee  next,  and  thou 
With  thy  own  head  shalt  satisfy  the  wrong 
Your  force  thus  quell'd  in  battle,  all  thy 

wealth 
Whether  in  house  or  field,  mingled  with 

his, 

We  will  confiscate,  neither  will  we  leave 
Or  son  of  thine,  or  daughter  in  thy  house 
Alive,  nor  shall  thy  virtuous  consort  more 
Within  the  walls  of  Ithaca  be  seen. 
He  ended,  and  his  words  with  wrath 

inflamed 
Minerva's  heart  the  more;  incensed,  she 

turn'd 

Towards  Ulysses,  whom  she  thus  reproved. 
Thou  neither  own'st  the  courage  nor  the 

force, 
Ulysses,   now,   which   nine  whole   years 

thou  showd'st 

At  Ilium,  waging  battle  obstinate 
For  high-born  Helen,  and  in  horrid  fight 
Destroying  multitudes,  till  thy  advice 
At  last  lay'd  Priam's  bulwark'd  city  low. 
Why,  in  possession  of  thy  proper  home 
And  substance,  mourn'st  thou  want  of 

pow'r  t'oppose 
The  suitors?    Stand  beside  me,  mark  my 

deeds, 

And  thou  shalt  own  Mentor  Alcimides 
A  valiant  friend,  and  mindful  of  thy  love. 
She  spake;  nor  made  she  victory  as  yet 
Entire  his  own,  proving  the  valor,  first, 
Both  of  the  sire  and  of  his  glorious  son, 
But,  springing  in  a  swallow's  form  aloft, 
Perch'd  on  a  rafter  of  the  splendid  roof. 
Then,  Agelaiis  animated  loud 
The  suitors,  whom  Eurynomus  also  roused, 
Amphimedon,  and  Demoptolemus, 
And  Polyctorides,  Pisander  named, 
And  Polybus  the  brave;  for  noblest  far 
Of  all  the  suitor-chiefs  who  now  survived 
And  fought  for  life  were  these.    The  bow 

had  quell'd 


And  shafts,  in  quick  succession  sent,  the 

rest. 

Then  Agelaiis,  thus,  harangued  them  all. 
We  soon  shall  tame,  O  friends,   this 

warrior's  might, 

Whom  Mentor,  after  all  his  airy  vaunts 
Hath  left,  and  at  the  portal  now  remain 
Themselves  alone.  Dismiss  not  therefore, 

all, 

Your  spears  together,  but  with  six  alone 
Assail  them  first;  Jove  willing,  we  shall 

pierce 

Ulysses,  and  subduing  him,  shall  slay 
With  ease  the  rest;  their  force  is  safely 

scorn'd. 
He  ceas'd;  and,  as  he  bade,  six  hurl'd  the 

spear 

Together;  but  Minerva  gave  them  all 
A  devious  flight;  one  struck  a  column,  one 
The  planks  of  the  broad  portal,  and  a  third 
Flung  right  his  ashen  beam  pond'rous  with 

brass 
Against  the  wall.    Then   (ev'ry  suitor's 

spear 

Eluded)  thus  Ulysses  gave  the  word — 
Now  friends!    I  counsel  you  that  ye 

dismiss 
Your  spears  at  them,  who,  not  content  with 

past 
Enormities,  thirst  also  for  our  blood. 

He  said,  and  with  unerring  aim,  all  threw 
Their  glitt'ring  spears.    Ulysses  on  the 

ground 

Stretch 'd  Demoptolemus;  Euryades 
Fell  by  Telemachus;  the  swine-herd  slew 
Elatus ;  and  the  keeper  of  the  beeves 
Pisander;  in  one  moment  all  alike 
Lay  grinding  with  their  teeth  the  dusty 

floor. 

Back  flew  the  suitors  to  the  farthest  wall, 
On  whom  those  valiant  four  advancing, 

each 
Recover'd,  quick,  his  weapon  from  the 

dead. 

Then  hurl'd  the  desp'rate  suitors  yet  again 
Their  glitt'ring  spears  but  Pallas  gave  to 

each 
A  frustrate  course;  one  struck  a  column. 

one 

The  planks  of  the  broad  portal,  and  a  third 
Flung  full  his  ashen   beam  against   the 

wall. 


34 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Yet   pierced   Amphimedon   the   Prince's 

wrist, 
But  slightly,  a  skin-wound,  and  o'er  his 

shield 

Ctesippus  reach'd  the  shoulder  of  the  good 
Eumseus,  but  his  glancing  weapon  swift 
O'erflew  the  mark,  and  fell.    And  now  the 

four, 

Ulysses,  dauntless  Hero,  and  his  friends 
All  hurl'd  their  spears  together  in  return, 
Himself  Ulysses,  city-waster  Chief, 
Wounded  Eurydamas;  Ulysses'  son 
Amphimedon;  the  swine-herd  Polybus; 
And  in  his  breast  the  keeper  of  the  beeves 
Ctesippus,  glorying  over  whom,  he  cried. 
Oh  son  of  Polytherses!  whose  delight 
Hath  been  to  taunt  and  jeer,  never  again 
Boast  foolishly,  but  to  the  Gods  commit 
Thy  tongue,  since  they  are  mightier  far 

than  thou. 

Take  this — a  compensation  for  thy  pledge 
Of  hospitality,  the  huge  ox-hoof, 
Which  while  he  roam'd  the  palace,  begging 

alms, 

Ulysses  at  thy  bounteous  hand  received. 
So  gloried  he;  then,  grasping  still  his 

spear, 

Ulysses  pierced  Damastor's  son,  and,  next, 
Telemachus,  enforcing  his  long  beam 
Sheer  through  his  bowels  and  his  back, 

transpierced 

Leiocritus;  he  prostrate  smote  the  floor. 
Then,  Pallas  from  the  lofty  roof  held  forth 
Her    host-confounding    ^Egis    o'er    their 

heads, 
With'ring  their  souls  with  fear.    They 

through  the  hall 
Fled,  scatter'd  as  an  herd,  which  rapid- 

wing'd 

The  gad-fly  dissipates,  infester  fell 
Of  beeves,  when  vernal  suns  shine  hot  and 

long. 
But,  as  when  bow-beak'd  vultures  crooked- 

claw'd 
Stoop  from  the  mountains  on  the  smaller 

fowl; 

Terrified  at  the  toils  that  spread  the  plain 
The  flocks  take  wing,  they,  darting  from 

above, 

Strike,  seize,  and  slay,  resistance  or  escape 
Is  none,  the  fowler's  heart  leaps  with  de- 
light, 


• 


So  they,  pursuing  through  the  spacious 

hall 
The  suitors,  smote  them  on  all  sides,  their 

heads 
Sounded  beneath  the  sword,  with  hideous 

groans 
The  palace  rang,  and  the  floor  foamed  with 

blood. 

Then  flew  Leiodes  to  Ulysses'  knees, 
Which  clasping,  in  wing'd  accents  thus  h( 

cried. 

I  clasp  thy  knees,  Uiysses !  on  respect 
My  suit,  and  spare  me!    Never  have 

word 

Injurious  spoken,  or  injurious  deed 
Attempted    'gainst    the   women    of    thr 

house, 

But  others,  so  transgressing,  oft  forbad. 
Yet  they  abstain'd  not,  and  a  dreadful  fate 
Due  to  their  wickedness  have,  therefore, 

found. 

But  I,  their  soothsayer  alone,  must  fall, 
Though  unoffending;  such  is  the  return 
By  mortals  made  for  benefits  received ! 

To  whom  Ulysses,  louring  dark,  replied. 
Is  that  thy  boast?    Hast  thou  indeed  for 

these 

The  seer's  high  office  fill'd?    Then,  doubt- 
less, oft 
Thy  pray'r  hath  been  that  distant  far 

might  prove 

The  day  delectable  of  my  return, 
And  that  my  consort  might  thy  own  be- 
come 
To  bear  thee  children;  wherefore  thee  I 

doom 

To  a  dire  death  which  thou  shalt  not  avoid. 
So  saying,  he  caught  the  faulchion  from 

the  floor 

Which  Agelaiis  had  let  fall,  and  smote 
Leiodes,  while  he  kneel'd,  athwart  his  neck 
So  suddenly,  that  ere  his  tongue  had  ceased 
To  plead  for  life,  his  head  was  in  the  dust. 
But  Phemius,  son  of  Terpius,  bard  divine, 
Who,  through  compulsion,  with  his  song 

regaled 

The  suitors,  a  like  dreadful  death  escaped. 
Fast  by  the  postern,  harp  in  hand,  he 

stood, 
Doubtful  if,  issuing,  he  should  take  his 

seat 
Beside  the  altar  of  Hercaean  Jove, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Where  oft  Ulysses  offer'd,  and  his  sire, 
Fat  thighs  of  beeves  or  whether  he  should 

haste, 

An  earnest  suppliant,  to  embrace  his  knees. 
That  course,  at  length,  most  pleased  him; 

then,  between 

The  beaker  and  an  argent-studded  throne 
He  grounded  his  sweet  lyre,  and  seizing 

fast 
The  Hero's  knees,  him,  suppliant,  thus 

address'd. 

I  clasp  thy  knees,  Ulysses!  oh  respect 
My  suit,  and  spare  me.    Thou  shalt  not 

escape 

Regret  thyself  hereafter,  if  thou  slay 
Me,  charmer  of  the  woes  of  Gods  and  men. 
Self-taught  am  I,  and  treasure  in  my  mind 
Themes  of  all  argument  from  heav'n  in- 
spired, 

And  I  can  sing  to  thee  as  to  a  God. 
Ah,  then,  behead  me  not.    Put  ev'n  the 

wish 

Far  from  thee!  for  thy  own  beloved  son 
Can  witness,  that  not  drawn  by  choice,  or 

driv'n 

By  stress  of  want,  resorting  to  thine  house 
I  have  regaled  these  revellers  so  oft, 
But  under  force  of  mightier  far  than  I. 
So  he;  whose  words  soon  as  the  sacred 

might 

Heard  of  Telemachus,  approaching  quick 
His  father,  thus,  humane,  he  interposed. 
Hold,  harm  not  with  the  vengeful  faul- 

chion's  edge 

This  blameless  man;  and  we  will  also  spare 
Medon  the  herald,  who  hath  ever  been 
A  watchful  guardian  of  my  boyish  years, 
Unless  Philcetius  have  already  slain  him, 
Or  else  Eumaeus,  or  thyself,  perchance, 
Unconscious,  in  the  tumult  of  our  foes. 
He  spake,  whom  Medon  hearing  (for  he 

lay 

Beneath  a  throne,  and  in  a  new-stript  hide 
Enfolded,  trembling  with  the  dread  of 

death) 


Sprang  from  his  hiding-place,  and  casting 

off 

The  skin,  flew  to  Telemachus,  embraced 
His  knees,  and  in  wing'd   accents    thus 

exclaim'd. 

Prince !  I  am  here — oh,  pity  me !  repress 
Thine  own,  and  pacify  thy  father's  wrath, 
That  he  destroy  not  me,  through  fierce 

revenge 

Of  their  iniquities  who  have  consumed 
His  wealth,  and,  in  their  folly  scorn'd  his 

son. 

To  whom  Ulysses,  ever-wise,  replied, 
Smiling  complacent.     Fear  not;  my  own 

son 
Hath  pleaded  for  thee.    Therefore  (taught 

thyself 
That   truth)    teach  others   the   superior 

worth 

Of  benefits  with  injuries  compared. 
But  go  ye  forth,  thou  and  the  sacred  bard, 
That  ye  may  sit  distant  in  yonder  court 
From  all  this  carnage,  while  I  give  com- 
mand, 

Myself,  concerning  it,  to  those  within. 
He  ceas'd;  they  going  forth,  took  each 

his  seat 

Beside  Jove's  altar,  but  with  careful  looks 
Suspicious,   dreading  without  cease   the 

sword. 
Meantime  Ulysses  search'd  his  hall,  in 

quest 

Of  living  foes,  if  any  still  survived 
Unpunish'd;  but  he  found  them  all  alike 
Welt'ring  in  dust  and  blood;  num'rous 

they  lay 
Like  fishes  when  they  strew  the  sinuous 

shore 
Of  Ocean,  from  the  gray  gulph  drawn 

aground 

In  nets  of  many  a  mesh;  they  on  the  sands 
Lie  spread,  athirst  for  the  salt  wave,  til] 

hot 

The  gazing  sun  dries  all  their  life  away; 
So  lay  the  suitors  heap'd. 


26 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


PUBLIUS  VIRGILIUS  MARO  (B.  C.  70-19) 
THE  ^ENEID 

The  noble  story  of  the  flight  of  ^Eneas  with  his  companions  from  the  sack  of  Troy,  of  their  perilous 
voyage  to  Carthage,  where  they  were  entertained  by  Queen  Dido,  of  ^Eneas's  desertion  of  her  at  the 
bidding  of  Jupiter  through  his  messenger  Mercury,  of  his  journey  to  Italy  and  the  wars  that  ensued  be- 
fore he  could  fulfill  his  destiny  in  founding  the  city  of  Rome,  is  told  in  this  great  national  epic  of  the 
Roman  race.  For  beauty  of  phrase  and  loftiness  of  spirit  the  poem  is  quite  unrivalled. 

Book  II,  which  is  here  given,  is  the  hero's  own  account,  told  to  Dido,  of  the  sacking  of  Troy  by 
the  victorious  Greeks  and  his  escape  from  the  burning  city.  The  translation  is  by  John  Dryden,  and 
was  first  published  in  1697. 


BOOK  II 


ARGUMENT 

/£NEAS  relates  how  the  city  of  Troy  was  taken 
after  a  ten  years'  siege,  by  the  treachery  of 
Sinon,  and  the  stratagem  of  a  wooden  horse. 
He  declares  the  fix'd  resolution  he  had  taken 
not  to  survive  the  rums  of  his  country,  and  the 
various  adventures  he  met  with  in  the  defense 
of  it.  At  last,  having  been  before  advis'd  by 
Hector's  ghost,  and  now  by  the  appearance 
of  his  mother  Venus,  he  is  prevail'd  upon  to 
leave  the  town,  and  settle  his  household  gods 
in  another  country.  In  order  to  this,  he  carries 
off  his  father  on  his  shoulders,  and  leads  his 
little  son  by  the  hand,  his  wife  following  him 
behind.  When  he  comes  to  the  place  ap- 
pointed for  the  general  rendezvouze,  he  finds 
a  great  confluence  of  people,  but  misses  his 
wife,  whose  ghost  afterward  appears  to  him, 
and  tells  him  the  land  which  was  design'd 
for  him. 


ALL  were  attentive  to  the  godlike  man, 
When  from  his  lofty  couch  he  thus  began: 
"  Great  queen,  what  you  command  me  to 

relate 

Renews  the  sad  remembrance  of  our  fate: 
An  empire  from  its  old  foundations  rent. 
And  ev'ry  woe  the  Trojans  underwent; 
A  peopled  city  made  a  desert  place: 
All  that  I  saw,  and  part  of  which  I  was: 
Not  ev'n  the  hardest  of  our  foes  could 

hear, 

Nor  stern  Ulysses  tell  without  a  tear. 
And  now  the  latter  watch  of  wasting  night, 
And  setting  stars,  to  kindly  rest  invite; 
But,  since  you  take  such  int'rest  in  our 

woe, 

And  Troy's  disastrous  end  desire  to  know, 
I  will  restrain  my  tears,  and  briefly  tell 
What  in  our  last  and  fatal  night  befell. 


"  By  destiny  compell'd,  and  in  despair, 

The  Greeks  grew  weary  of  the  tedious  war, 

And  by  Minerva's  aid  a  fabric  rear'd, 

Which  like  a  steed  of  monstrous  height 
appear'd: 

The  sides  were  plank'd  with  pine;  they 
feign'd  it  made 

For  their  return,  and  this  the  vow  they 
paid. 

Thus  they  pretend,  but  in  the  hollow  side 

Selected  numbers  of  their  soldiers  hide: 

With  inward  arms  the  dire  machine  they 
load, 

And  iron  bowels  stuff  the  dark  abode. 

In  sight  of  Troy  lies  Tenedos,  an  isle 

(While  Fortune  did  on  Priam's  empire 
smile) 

Renown'd  for  wealth;  but,  since,  a  faith- 
less bay, 

Where  ships  expos'd  to  wind  and  weather 
lay. 

There    was    their    fleet    conceal' d.     We 
thought,  for  Greece 

Their  sails  were  hoisted,  and  our  fears  re- 
lease. 

The  Trojans,  coop'd  within  then-  walls  so 
long, 

Unbar  their  gates,  and  issue  in  a  throng, 

Like  swarming  bees,  and  with  delight  sur- 
vey 

The  camp  deserted,  where  the  Grecians 
lay: 

The  quarters  of  the  sev'ral  chiefs  the 
show'd; 

Here  Phcenix,  here  Achilles,  made  abode; 

Here  join'd  the  battles;  there  the  na^ 
rode. 

Part  on  the  pile  their  wond'ring  eyes  em- 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


27 


The  pile  by  Pallas  rais'd  to  ruin  Troy. 

Thymoetes  first  ('t  is  doubtful  whether 
hir'd, 

Or  so  the  Trojan  destiny  requir'd) 

Mov'd  that  the  ramparts  might  be  broken 
down, 

Tc  lodge  the  monster  fabric  in  the  town. 

But  Capys,  and  the  rest  of  sounder  mind, 

The  fatal  present  to  the  flames  design'd, 

Or  to  the  wat'ry  deep;  at  least  to  bore 

The  hollow  sides,  and  hidden  frauds  ex- 
plore. 

The  giddy  vulgar,  as  their  fancies  guide, 

With  noise  say  nothing,  and  in  parts  di- 
vide. 

Laocoon,  follow'd  by  a  num'rous  crowd, 

Ran  from  the  fort,  and  cried,  from  far, 
aloud: 

'0  wretched  countrymen!  what  fury 
reigns? 

What  more  than  madness  has  possess'd 
your  brains? 

Think  you  the  Grecians  from  your  coasts 
are  gone? 

And  are  Ulysses'  arts  no  better  known? 

This  hollow  fabric  either  must  inclose, 

Within  its  blind  recess,  our  secret  foes; 

Or  't  is  an  engine  rais'd  above  the  town, 

T'  o'erlook  the  walls,  and  then  to  batter 
down. 

Somewhat  is  sure  design'd,  by  fraud  or 
force : 

Trust  not  their  presents,  nor  admit  the 
horse.' 

Thus  having  said,  against  the  steed  he 
threw 

His  forceful  spear,  which,  hissing  as  it  flew, 

Pierc'd  thro'  the  yielding  planks  of  jointed 
wood, 

And  trembling  in  the  hollow  belly  stood. 

The  sides,  transpierc'd,  return  a  rattling 
sound, 

And  groans  oi  Greeks  inclos'd  come  issuing 
thro'  the  wound. 

And,  had  not  Heav'n  the  fall  of  Troy  de- 
sign'd, 

Or  had  not  men  been  fated  to  be  blind, 

Enough  was  said  and  done  t'  inspire  a 
better  mind. 

Ihen  had  our  lances  pierc'd  the  treach'rous 
wood, 

And  Ilian  tow'rs  and  Priam's  empire  stood. 


Meantime,  with  shouts,  the  Trojan  shep- 
herds bring 

A  captive  Greek,  in  bands,  before  the  king; 

Taken,  to  take;  who  made  himself  their 
prey, 

T '  impose  on  their  belief,  and  Troy  betray; 

Fix'd  on  his  aim,  and  obstinately  bent 

To  die  undaunted,  or  to  circumvent. 

About  the  captive,  tides  of  Trojans  flow; 

All  press  to  see,  and  some  insult  the  foe. 

Now  hear  how  well  the  Greeks  their  wiles 
disguis'd; 

Behold  a  nation  in  a  man  compris'd. 

Trembling  the  miscreant  stood,  unarm'd 
and  bound; 

He  star'd,  and  roll'd  his  haggard  eyes 
around, 

Then  said:   'Alas!  what  earth  remains, 
what  sea 

Is  open  to  receive  unhappy  me? 

What  fate  a  wretched  fugitive  attends, 

Scorn'd  by  my  foes,  abandon'd  by  my 
friends?' 

He  said,  and  sigh'd,  and  cast  a  rueful  eye: 

Our  pity  kindles,  and  our  passions  die. 

We  cheer  the  youth  to  make  his  own  de- 
fense, 

And  freely  tell  us  what  he  was,  and  whence : 

What  news  he  could  impart,  we  long  to 
know, 

And  what  to  credit  from  a  captive  foe. 
"His  fear  at  length  dismiss'd,  he  said: 
'Whate'er 

My  fate  ordains,  my  words  shall  be  sin- 
cere: 

I  neither  can  nor  dare  my  birth  disclaim; 

Greece  is  my  country,  Sinon  is  my  name. 

Tho'  plung'd  by  Fortune's  pow'r  in  misery, 

'Tis  not  in  Fortune's  pow'r  to  make  me 
lie. 

If  any  chance  has  hither  brought  the  name 

Of  Palamedes,  not  unknown  to  fame, 

Who  suffer'd  from  the  malice  of  the  times, 

Accus'd    and    sentenc'd    for    pretended 
crimes, 

Because  these  fatal  wars  he  would  prevent; 

Whose  death  the  wretched  Greeks  too  late 
lament — 

Me,   then  a  boy,  my  father,  poor  and 
bare 

Of  other  means,  committed  to  his  care, 

His  kinsman  and  companion  hi  the  war. 


28 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


While  Fortune  favor'd,  while  his  arms  sup- 
port 
The  cause,  and  ruFd  the  counsels,  of  the 

court, 
I  made  some  figure  there;  nor  was  my 

name 

Obscure,  nor  I  without  my  share  of  fame. 
But  when  Ulysses,  with  fallacious  arts, 
Had    made   impression   in    the   people's 

hearts, 

And  forg'd  a  treason  in  my  patron's  name 
(I  speak  of  things  too  far  divulg'd  by 

fame), 

My  kinsman  fell.     Then  I,  without  sup- 
port, 
In  private  mourn'd  his  loss,  and  left  the 

court. 

Mad  as  I  was,  I  could  not  bear  his  fate 
With  silent  grief,  but  loudly  blam'd  the 

state, 

And  curs'd  the  direful  author  of  my  woes. 
'T  was  told  again;  and  hence  my  ruin  rose. 
I  threaten'd,  if  indulgent  Heav'n  once 

more 

Would  land  me  safely  on  my  native  shore, 
His  death  with  double  vengeance  to  re- 
store. 
This  mov'd  the  murderer's  hate;  and  soon 

ensued 

Th'  effects  of  malice  from  a  man  so  proud. 
Ambiguous  rumors  thro'  the  camp  he 

spread, 

And  sought,  by  treason,  my  devoted  head; 
New  crimes  invented;  left  unturn'd  no 

stone, 
To  make  my  guilt  appear,  and  hide  his 

own; 
Till  Calchas  was  by  force  and  threat'ning 

wrought — 
But  why — why  dwell  I  on  that  anxious 

thought? 

If  on  my  nation  just  revenge  you  seek, 
And  't  is  t'appear  a  foe,  t'  appear  a  Greek; 
Already  you  my  name  and  country  know; 
Assuage  your  thirst  of  blood,  and  strike  the 

blow: 
My  death  will  both  the  kingly  brothers 

please, 

And  set  insatiate  Ithacus  at  ease.' 
This  fair   unfmish'd   tale,   these   broken 

starts, 
Rais'd  expectations  in  our  longing  hearts: 


Unknowing  as  we  were  in  Grecian  arts. 
His  former  trembling  once  again  renew'd, 
With  acted  fear,  the  villain  thus  pursued: 
'"Long  had  the  Grecians   (tir'd  with 

fruitless  care, 

And  wearied  with  an  unsuccessful  war) 
Resolv'd  to  raise  the  siege,  and  leave  the 

town; 
And,  had  the  gods  permitted,  they  had 

gone; 

But  oft  the  wintry  seas  and  southern  winds 
Withstood  their  passage  home,  and  chang'd 

their  minds. 

Portents  and  prodigies  their  souls  amaz'd; 
But  most,  when  this  stupendous  pile  was 

rais'd: 
Then  flaming  meteors,  hung  in  air,  were 

seen, 

And  thunders  rattled  thro'  a  sky  serene. 
Dismay'd,  and  fearful  of  some  dire  event, 
Eurypylus  t'  enquire  their  fate  was  sent. 
He  from  the  gods  this  dreadful  answer 

brought: 
"O  Grecians,  when  the  Trojan  shores  you 

sought, 
Your  passage  with  a  virgin's  blood  was 

bought: 

So  must  your  safe  return  be  bought  again, 
And  Grecian  blood  once  more  atone  the 

main." 
The  spreading  rumor  round  the  people 

ran; 
All  fear'd,  and  each  believ'd  himself  the 

man. 

Ulysses  took  th'  advantage  of  their  fright; 
Call'd  Calchas,  and  produc'd  in  open  sight: 
Then  bade  him  name  the  wretch,  ordain'd 

by  fate 

The  public  victim,  to  redeem  the  state. 
Already  some  presag'd  the  dire  event, 
And  saw  what  sacrifice  Ulysses  meant. 
For  twice  five  days  the  good  old  seer  with- 
stood 
Th'  intended  treason,  and  was  dumb 

blood, 

Till,  tir'd  with  endless  clamors  and  pursuit 
Of  Ithacus,  he  stood  no  longer  mute; 
But,  as  it  was  agreed,  pronounc'd  that  I 
Was  destin'd  by  the  wrathful  gods  to  die. 
All  prais'd  the  sentence,  pleas'd  the  storir 

should  fall 
On  one  alone,  whose  fury  threaten'd  all. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


29 


The  dismal  day  was  come;  the  priests 

prepare 
Their  leaven'd  cakes,  and  fillets  for  my 

hair. 

I  foflow'd  nature's  laws,  and  must  avow 
I  broke  my  bonds  and  fled  the  fatal  blow. 
Hid  in  a  weedy  lake  all  night  I  lay, 
Secure  of  safety  when  they  sail'd  away. 
But  now  what  further  hopes  for  me  re- 
main, 

To  see  my  friends,  or  native  soil,  again; 
My  tender  infants,  or  my  careful  sire, 
Whom  they  returning  will  to  death  re- 
quire; 

Will  perpetrate  on  them  their  first  design, 
And  take  the  forfeit  of  their  heads  for 

mine? 

Which,  O!  if  pity  mortal  minds  can  move, 
If  there  be  faith  below,  or  gods  above, 
If  innocence  and  truth  can  claim  desert, 
Ye  Trojans,  from  an  injur'd  wretch  avert.' 
"False  tears  true  pity  move;  the  king 

commands 

To  loose  his  fetters,  and  unbind  his  hands: 
Then  adds  these  friendly  words:  'Dismiss 

thy  fears; 
Forget  the  Greeks;  be  mine  as  thou  wert 

theirs. 

But  truly  tell,  was  it  for  force  or  guile, 
Or  some  religious  end,  you  rais'd  the  pile? ' 
Thus  said  the  king.    He,  full  of  fraudful 

arts, 

This  well-invented  tale  for  truth  imparts: 
'Ye  lamps  of  heav'n!'  he  said,  and  lifted 

high 

His  hands  now  free,  'thou  venerable  sky! 
Inviolable  pow'rs,  ador'd  with  dread! 
Ye  fatal  fillets,  that  once  bound  this  head! 
Ye  sacred  altars,  from  whose  flames  I  fled! 
Be  all  of  you  adjur'd;  and  grant  I  may, 
Without  a  crime,  th'  ungrateful  Greeks 

betray, 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  the  guilty  state, 
And  justly  punish  whom  I  justly  hate! 
But  you,  O  king,  preserve  the  faith  you 

gave, 

If  I,  to  save  myself,  your  empire  save. 
The  Grecian  hopes,  and  all  th'  attempts 

they  made, 

Were  only  founded  on  Minerva's  aid. 
But  from  the  time  when  impious  Diomede, 
And  false  Ulysses,  that  inventive  head, 


Her  fatal  image  from  the  temple  drew, 
The  sleeping  guardians  of  the  castle  slew, 
Her  virgin  statue  with  their  bloody  hands 
Polluted,  and  profan'd  her  holy  bands; 
From  thence  the  tide  of  fortune  left  their 

shore, 

And  ebb'd  much  faster  than  it  flow'd  be- 
fore: 
Their  courage  languish'd,  as  their  hopes 

decay 'd; 

And  Pallas,  now  averse,  refus'd  her  aid. 
Nor  did  the  goddess  doubtfully  declare 
Her  alter'd  mind  and  alienated  care. 
When  first  her  fatal  image  touch'd  the 

ground, 

She  sternly  cast  her  glaring  eyes  around, 
That  sparkled  as  they  roll'd,  and  seem'd  to 

threat: 

Her  heav'nly  limbs  distill'd'a  briny  sweat. 
Thrice  from  the  ground  she  leap'd,  was 

seen  to  wield 
Her  brandish'd  lance,  and  shake  her  horrid 

shield. 

Then  Calchas  bade  our  host  for  flight  pre- 
pare, 
And  hope  no  conquest  from  the  tedious 

war, 
Till  first   they   sail'd   for    Greece;   with 

pray'rs  besought 
Her   injur'd   pow'r,    and   better    omens 

brought. 
And  now  their  navy  plows  the  wat'ry 

mam, 

Yet  soon  expect  it  on  your  shores  again, 
With  Pallas  pleas'd;  as  Calchas  did  or- 
dain. 

But  first,  to  reconcile  the  blue-ey'd  maid 
For  her  stol'n  statue  and  her  tow'r  be- 

tray'd, 

Warn'd  by  the  seer,  to  her  offended  name 
We  rais'd  and  dedicate   this  wondrous 

frame, 

So  lofty,  lest  thro'  your  forbidden  gates 
It  pass,  and  intercept  our  better  fates: 
For,  once  admitted  there,  our  hopes  are 

lost; 
And  Troy  may  then  a  new  Palladium 

boast; 

For  so  religion  and  the  gods  ordain, 
That,  if  you  violate  with  hands  profane 
Minerva's  gift,  your  town  in  flames  shall 
burn, 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


(Which  omen,  O  ye  gods,  on  Graecia  turn!) 
But  if  it  climb,  with  your  assisting  hands, 
The  Trojan  walls,  and  hi  the  city  stands; 
Then  Troy  shall  Argos  and  Mycenae  burn, 
And  the  reverse  of  fate  on  us  return.' 
"  With  such  deceits  he  gain'd  their  easy 

hearts, 

Too  prone  to  credit  his  perfidious  arts. 
What  Diomede,  nor  Thetis'  greater  son, 
A  thousand  ships,  nor  ten  years'  siege,  had 

done — 

False  tears  and  fawning  words  the  city  won. 
"A  greater  omen,  and  of  worse  portent, 
Did  our  unwary  minds  with  fear  torment, 
Concurring  to  produce  the  dire  event. 
Laocoon,  Neptune's  priest  by  lot  that  year, 
With  solemn  pomp  then  sacrific'd  a  steer; 
When,  dreadful  to  behold,  from  sea  we 

spied 
Two   serpents,  rank'd  abreast,  the  seas 

divide, 
And  smoothly  sweep  along  the  swelling 

tide. 
Their  flaming  crests  above  the  waves  they 

show; 

Their  bellies  seem  to  burn  the  seas  below; 
Their  speckled  tails  advance  to  steer  their 

course, 
And  on  the   sounding  shore   the  flying 

billows  force. 
And  now  the  strand,  and  now  the  plain 

they  held; 
Their  ardent  eyes  with  bloody  streaks  were 

fill'd; 
Their  nimble  tongues  they  brandish'd  as 

they  came, 
And  lick'd  their  hissing  jaws,  that  sputter'd 

flame. 
We  fled  amaz'd;  their  destin'd  way  they 

take, 

And  to  Laocoon  and  his  children  make; 
And  first  around  the  tender  boys  they 

wind, 
Then  with   their   sharpen'd  fangs   their 

limbs  and  bodies  grind. 
The  wretched  father,  running  to  their  aid 
With  pious  haste,  but  vain,  they  next  in- 
vade; 

Twice  round  his  waist  then:  winding  vol- 
umes roll'd; 
And  twice  about  his  gasping  throat  they 

fold, 


The  priest  thus  doubly  chok'd,  their  crests 
divide, 

And   tow'ring  o'er  his  head  in  triumph 
ride. 

With  both  his  hands  he  labors  at  the 
knots; 

His  holy  fillets  the  blue  venom  blots; 

His  roaring  fills  the  flitting  air  around. 

Thus,  when  an  ox  receives  a  glancing 
wound, 

He  breaks  his  bands,  the  fatal  altar  flies, 

And  with  loud  bellowings  breaks  the  yield- 
ing skies. 

Their  tasks  perform'd,  the  serpents  quit 
their  prey, 

And  to  the  tow'r  of  Pallas  make  their  way: 

Couch'd  at  her  feet,  they  lie  protected 
there 

By  her  large  buckler  and  protended  spear. 

Amazement  seizes  all;  the  gen'ral  cry 

Proclaims  Laocoon  justly  doom'd  to  die, 

Whose  hand  the  will  of  Pallas  had  with- 
stood, 

And  dar'd  to  violate  the  sacred  wood. 

All  vote  t'  admit  the  steed,  that  vows  be 
paid 

And  incense  offer'd  to  th'  offended  maid. 

A  spacious  breach  is  made;  the  town  lies 
bare; 

Some  hoisting-levers,  some  the  wheels  pre- 
pare 

And  fasten  to  the  horse's  feet;  the  rest 

With  cables  haul  along  th'  unwieldy  beast. 

Each  on  his  fellow  for  assistance  calls; 

At  length  the  fatal  fabric  mounts  the  walls, 

Big  with  destruction.    Boys  with  chaplets 
crown'd, 

And  choirs  of  virgins,   sing  and  dance 
around. 

Thus  rais'd  aloft,  and  then  descending 
down, 

It  enters  o'er  our  heads,  and  threats  the 
town. 

O  sacred  city,  built  by  hands  divine! 

O  valiant  heroes  of  the  Trojan  line! 

Four  times  he  struck:  as  oft  the  clashing 
sound 

Of  arms  was  heard,  and  inward  groans  re- 
bound. 

Yet,  mad  with  zeal,  and  blinded  with  our 
fate, 

We  haul  along  the  horse  in  solemn  state; 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Then  place  the  dire  portent  within  the 

tow'r. 
Cassandra  cried,  and  curs'd  th'  unhappy 

hour; 

Foretold  our  fate;  but,  by  the  god's  de- 
cree, 

All  heard,  and  none  believ'd  the  prophecy. 
With  branches  we  the  fanes  adorn,  and 

waste, 

In  jollity,  the  day  ordain'd  to  be  the  last. 
Meantime  the  rapid  heav'ns  roll'd  down 

the  light, 

And  on  the  shaded  ocean  rush'd  the  night; 
Our  men,  secure,  nor  guards  nor  sentries 

held, 
But  easy  sleep  their  weary  limbs  com- 

pell'd. 
The  Grecians  had  embark'd  their  naval 

pow'rs 
From  Tenedos,  and  sought  our  well-known 

shores, 

Safe  under  covert  of  the  silent  night, 
lAnd  guided  by  th'  imperial  galley's  light; 
When  Sinon,  favor'd  by  the  partial  gods, 
Unlock'd  the  horse,  and  op'd  his  dark 

abodes; 

Restor'd  to  vital  air  our  hidden  foes, 
Who  joyful  from  their  long  confinement 

rose. 

Tysander  bold,  and  Sthenelus  their  guide, 
And  dire  Ulysses  down  the  cable  slide: 
Then  Thoas,  Athamas,  and  Pyrrhus  haste; 
Nor  was  the  Podalirian  hero  last, 
Nor  injur'd  Menelaiis,  nor  the  fam'd 
Epeiis,  who  the  fatal  engine  fram'd. 
A  nameless  crowd  succeed;  their  forces  join 
T'  invade  the  town,  oppress'd  with  sleep 

and  wine. 
Those  few  they  find  awake  first  meet  their 

fate; 

Then  to  their  fellows  they  unbar  the  gate. 
"  'T  was  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  sleep 

repairs 
Our  bodies  worn  with  toils,  our  minds  with 

cares, 

When  Hector's  ghost  before  my  sight  ap- 
pears: 
A  bloody  shroud  he  seem'd,  and  bath'd  in 

tears; 

Such  as  he  was,  when,  by  Pelides  slain, 
Thessalian  coursers  dragg'd  him  o'er  the 

plain. 


Swol'n  were  his  feet,  as  when  the  thongs 

were  thrust 
Thro'  the  bor'd  holes;  his  body  black  with 

dust; 

Unlike  that  Hector  who  return'd  from  toils 
Of  war,  triumphant,  in  ^Eacian  spoils, 
Or  him  who  made  the  fainting  Greeks  re- 
tire, 
And  launch'd  against  their  navy  Phrygian 

fire. 
His  hah-  and  beard  stood  stiffen'd  with  his 

gore; 

And  all  the  wounds  he  for  his  country  bore 
Now  stream'd  afresh,  and  with  new  purple 

ran. 

I  wept  to  see  the  visionary  man, 
And,  while  my  trance  continued,   thus 

began: 

'0  light  of  Trojans,  and  support  of  Troy, 
Thy  father's  champion,  and  thy  country's 

joy! 
O,  long  expected  by  thy  friends!  from 

whence 

Art  thou  so  late  return'd  for  our  defense? 
Do  we  behold  thee,  wearied  as  we  are 
With  length  of  labors,  and  with  toils  oi 

war? 

After  so  many  fun'rals  of  thy  own 
Art  thou  restor'd  to  thy  declining  town? 
But  say,  what  wounds  are  these?    What 

new  disgrace 

Deforms  the  manly  features  of  thy  face? : 

"To  this  the  specter  no  reply  did  frame. 

But  answer'd  to  the  cause  for  which  he 

came, 
And,  groaning  from  the  bottom  of  his 

breast, 
This  warning  in  these  mournful  words  ex- 

press'd: 

'O  goddess-born!  escape,  by  timely  flight. 
The  flames  and  horrors  of  this  fatal  night. 
The  foes  already  have  possess'd  the  wall; 
Troy  nods  from  high,  and  totters  to  her 

fall. 

Enough  is  paid  to  Priam's  royal  name, 
More  than  enough  to  duty  and  to  fame. 
If  by  a  mortal  hand  my  father's  throne 
Could  be  defended,  't  was  by  mine  alone. 
Now  Troy  to  thee  commends  her  future 

state, 
And  gives  her  gods  companions  of  thy 

fate: 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


From  their  assistance  happier  walls  ex- 
pect, 
Which,  wand'ring  long,  at  last  thou  shalt 

erect.' 
He  said,  and  brought  me,  from  their  blest 

abodes, 

The  venerable  statues  of  the  gods, 
With  ancient  Vesta  from  the  sacred  choir, 
The  wreaths  and  relics  of  th'  immortal  fire. 
"Now  peals  of  shouts  come  thund'ring 

from  afar. 

Cries,  threats,  and  loud  laments,  and  min- 
gled war: 

The  noise  approaches,  tho'  our  palace  stood 
Aloof  from  streets,  encompass'd  with  a 

wood. 
Louder,  and  yet  more  loud,  I  hear  th' 

alarms 

Of  human  cries  distinct,  and  clashing  arms. 
Fear  broke  my  slumbers;  I  no  longer  stay, 
But  mount  the  terrace,  thence  the  town 

survey, 
And  hearken  what  the  frightful  sounds 

convey. 

Thus,  when  a  flood  of  fire  by  wind  is  borne, 
Crackling  it  rolls,  and  mows  the  standing 

corn; 

Or  deluges,  descending  on  the  plains, 
Sweep  o'er  the  yellow  year,  destroy  the 

pains 

Of  lab'ring  oxen  and  the  peasant's  gains; 
Unroot  the  forest  oaks,  and  bear  away 
Flocks,  folds,  and  trees,  an  undistinguish'd 

prey: 
The  shepherd  climbs  the  cliff,  and  sees 

from  far 

The  wasteful  ravage  of  the  wat'ry  war. 
Then  Hector's  faith  was  manifestly  clear 'd, 
And  Grecian  frauds  in  open  light  appear'd. 
The  palace  of  Dei'phobus  ascends 
In   smoky   flames,   and   catches   on   his 

friends. 

Ucalegon  burns  next:  the  seas  are  bright 
With  splendor  not  their  own,  and  shine 

with  Trojan  light. 

New  clamors  and  new  clangors  now  arise, 
The  sound  of  trumpets  mix'd  with  fighting 

cries. 
With  frenzy  seiz'd.  I  run  to  meet  th3 

alarms, 
Resolv'd    on    death,    resolv'd   to  die  in 

arms. 


But  first  to  gather  friends,  with  them  t'  op 

pose 

(If  fortune  favor'd)  and  repel  the  foes; 
Spurr'd  by  my  courage,  by  my  country 

fir'd, 

With  sense  of  honor  and  revenge  inspir'd. 
"Pantheus,   Apollo's  priest,   a   sacred 

name, 
Had  scap'd  the  Grecian  swords,  and  pass'd 

the  flame: 

With  relics  loaden,  to  my  doors  he  fled, 
And  by  the  hand  his  tender  grandson  led. 
'  What  hope,  O  Pantheus?  whither  can  we 

run? 
Where  make  a  stand?  and  what  may  yet 

be  done? ' 
Scarce  had  I  said,  when  Pantheus,  with  a 

groan: 

'Troy  is  no  more,  and  Ilium  was  a  town! 
The  fatal  day,  th'  appointed  hour,  is  come, 
When  wrathful  Jove's  irrevocable  doom 
Transfers   the  Trojan   state   to   Grecian 

hands. 

The  fire  consumes  the  town,  the  foe  com- 
mands; 

And  armed  hosts,  an  unexpected  force, 
Break  from  the  bowels  of  the  fatal  horse. 
Within  the  gates,  proud  Sinon  throws 

about 
The  flames;  and  foes  for  entrance  press 

without, 
With  thousand  others,  whom  I  fear  to 

name, 

More  than  from  Argos  or  Mycenae  came. 
To  sev'ral  posts  their  parties  they  divide; 
Some  block  the  narrow  streets,  some  scour 

the  wide: 

The  bold  they  kill,  th'  unwary  they  sur- 
prise; 
Who  fights  finds  death,  and  death  finds 

him.  who  flies. 

The  warders  of  the  gate  but  scarce  main- 
tain 

Th'  unequal  combat,  and  resist  in  vain.' 
"I  heard;  and  Heav'n,  that  well-born 

souls  inspires, 
Prompts  me  thro'  lifted  swords  and  rising 

fires 
To  run  where  clashing  arms  and  clamor 

calls, 

And  rush  undaunted  to  defend  the  walls, 
Ripheus  and  Iph'itus  by  my  side  engage, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


33 


For  valor  one  renown'd,  and  one  for  age. 
Dymas  and  Hypanis  by  moonlight  knew 
My  motions  and  my  mien,  and  to  my 

party  drew; 
With  young  Corcebus,  who  by  love  was 

led 

To  win  renown  and  fair  Cassandra's  bed, 
And  lately  brought  his  troops  to  Priam's 

aid, 

Forewarn'd  in  vain  by  the  prophetic  maid. 
Whom  when  I  saw  resolv'd  in  arms  to  fall, 
And  that  one  spirit  animated  all: 
'Brave  souls!'  said  I, — 'but  brave,  alas! 

in  vain — 

Come,  finish  what  our  cruel  fates  ordain. 
You  see  the  desp'rate  state  of  our  affairs, 
And  heav'n's  protecting  pow'rs  are  deaf  to 

pray'rs. 

The  passive  gods  behold  the  Greeks  defile 
Their  temples,  and  abandon  to  the  spoil 
Their  own  abodes:  we,  feeble  few,  conspire 
To  save  a  sinking  town,  involv'd  in  fire. 
Then  let  us  fall,  but  fall  amidst  our  foes: 
Despair  of  life  the  means  of  living  shows.' 
So  bold  a  speech  incourag'd  their  desire 
Of  death,  and  added  fuel  to  their  fire. 
"As  hungry  wolves,  with  raging  appe- 
tite, 
Scour  thro'  the  fields,  nor  fear  the  stormy 

night — 
Their  whelps  at  home  expect  the  promis'd 

food, 
And  long  to  temper  their  dry  chaps  in 

blood — 

So  rush'd  we  forth  at  once;  resolv'd  to  die, 
Resolv'd,  in  death,  the  last  extremes  to  try. 
We  leave  the  narrow  lanes  behind,  and 

dare 

Th'  unequal  combat  in  the  public  square: 
Night  was  our  friend;  our  leader  was 

despair. 
What  tongue  can  tell  the  slaughter  of  that 

night? 
What  eyes  can  weep   the  sorrows  and 

affright? 

An  ancient  and  imperial  city  falls; 
The  streets  are  fill'd  with  frequent  funerals; 
Houses  and  holy  temples  float  in  blood, 
And  hostile  nations  make  a  common  flood. 
Not  only  Trojans  fall;  but,  in  their  turn, 
The  vanquish'd  triumph,  and  the  victors 

mourn. 


Ours  take  new  courage  from  despair  and 

night: 

Confus'd  the  fortune  is,  confus'd  the  fight. 
All  parts  resound  with  tumults,  plaints, 

and  fears; 

And  grisly  Death  in  sundry  shapes  ap- 
pears. 

Androgeos  fell  among  us,  with  his  band, 
Who  thought  us  Grecians  newly  come  to 

land. 
'From  whence,'  said  he,  'my  friends,  this 

long  delay? 

You  loiter,  while  the  spoils  are  borne  away: 
Our  ships  are  laden  with  the  Trojan  store; 
And  you,  like  truants,  come  too  late 

ashore.' 

He  said,  but  soon  corrected  his  mistake, 
Found,  by  the  doubtful  answers  which  we 

make: 

Amaz'd,  he  would  have  shunn'd  th'  un- 
equal fight; 
But   we,   more   num'rous,   intercept   his 

flight. 

As  when  some  peasant,  in  a  bushy  brake, 
Has  with  unwary  footing  press'd  a  snake; 
He  starts  aside,  astonish'd,  when  he  spies 
His  rising  crest,  blue  neck,  and  rolling 

eyes; 

So  from  our  arms  surpris'd  Androgeos  flies. 
In  vain;  for  him  and  his  we  compass'd 

round, 
Possess'd  with  fear,   unknowing  of   the 

ground, 

And  of  their  lives  an  easy  conquest  found. 
Thus  Fortune  on  our  first  endeavor  smil'd. 
Corcebus  then,  with  youthful  hopes  be- 

guil'd, 

Swoln  with  success,  and  of  a  daring  mind, 
This  new  invention  fatally  design'd. 
'My  friends,'  said  he,  'since  Fortune  shows 

the  way, 
'Tis  fit  we  should  th'  auspicious  guide 

obey. 
For  what  has  she  these   Grecian  arms 

bestow'd, 
But  their  destruction,  and  the  Trojans' 

good? 
Then  ehange  we  shields,  and  their  devices 

bear: 

Let  fraud  supply  the  want  of  force  in  war. 
They  find  us  arms.'  This  said,  himself  he 

dress'd 


34 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


In  dead  Androgeos'  spoils,  his  upper  vest, 
His  painted  buckler,  and  his  plumy  crest. 
Thus  Ripheus,  Dymas,  all  the  Trojan 

train, 
Lay  down  their  own  attire,  and  strip  the 

skin. 
Mix'd  with  the  Greeks,  we  go  with  ill 

presage, 
Flatter'd  with  hopes  to  glut  our  greedy 

rage; 
Unknown,   assaulting  whom  we  blindly 

meet, 
And  strew  with   Grecian  carcasses    the 

street. 
Thus  while  their  straggling  parties  we 

defeat, 

Some  to  the  shore  and  safer  ships  retreat; 
And  some,  oppress'd  with  more  ignoble 

fear, 
Remount  the  hollow  horse,  and  pant  in 

secret  there. 
"But,  ah!  what  use  of  valor  can  be 

made, 
When  heav'n's  propitious  pow'rs  refuse 

their  aid! 

Behold  the  royal  prophetess,  the  fair 
Cassandra,  dragg'd  by  her  dishevel'd  hair, 
Whom  not  Minerva's  shrine,  nor  sacred 

bands, 
In  safety  could  protect  from  sacrilegious 

hands: 
On  heav'n  she  cast  her  eyes,  she  sigh'd, 

she  cried — 
'T  was  all  she  could — her  tender  arms 

were  tied. 

So  sad  a  sight  Corcebus  could  not  bear; 
But,  fir'd  with  rage,  distracted  with  de- 
spair, 

Amid  the  barb'rous  ravishers  he  flew: 
Our  leader's  rash  example  we  pursue. 
But  storms  of  stones,  from  the  proud  tem- 
ple's height, 
Pour  down,  and  on  our  batter'd  helms 

alight: 
We  from  our  friends  receiv'd  this  fatal 

blow, 
Who  thought  us  Grecians,  as  we  seem'd 

in  show. 
They  aim  at  the  mistaken  crests,  from 

high; 

And  ours  beneath  the  pond'rous  ruin  lie. 
Then,  mov'd  with  anger  and  disdain,  to  see 


Their  troops  dispers'd,  the  royal  virgin 

free, 

The  Grecians  rally,  and  their  pow'rs  unite, 
With  fury  charge  us,  and  renew  the  fight. 
The  brother  kings  with  Ajax  join  their 

force, 
And  the  whole  squadron  of  Thessalian 

horse. 

"Thus,  when  the  rival  winds  their  quar- 
rel try, 

Contending  for  the  kingdom  of  the  sky, 
South,  east,  and  west,  on  airy  coursers 

borne; 
The  whirlwind  gathers,  and  the  woods  are 

torn: 
Then  Nereus  strikes  the  deep;  the  billows 

rise, 
And,  mix'd  with  ooze  and  sand,  pollute  the 

skies. 

The  troops  we  squander'd  first  again  ap- 
pear 
From  sev'ral  quarters,  and  enclose  the 

rear. 

They  first  observe,  and  to  the  rest  betray, 
Our  diff'rent  speech;  our  borrow'd  arms 

survey. 
Oppress'd  with  odds,  we  fall;  Corcebus 

first, 

At  Pallas'  altar,  by  Peneleus  pierc'd. 
Then  Ripheus  follow'd,  in  th'   unequal 

fight; 

Just  of  his  word,  observant  of  the  right: 
Heav'n  thought  not  so.    Dymas  their  fate 

attends, 

With  Hypanis,  mistaken  by  their  friends. 
Nor,  Pantheus,  thee,  thy  miter,  nor  the 

bands 
Of  awful  Phcebus,  sav'd  from  impious 

hands. 

Ye  Trojan  flames,  your  testimony  bear, 
What  I  perform'd,  and  what  I  suffer'd 

there; 

No  sword  avoiding  in  the  fatal  strife, 
Expos'd  to  death,  and  prodigal  of  life! 
Witness,  ye  heav'ns!  I  live  not  by  my 

fault: 
I  strove  to  have  deserv'd   the  death  I 

sought. 
But,  when  I  could  not  fight,  and  would 

have  died, 

Borne  off  to  distance  by  the  growing  tide, 
Old  Iphitus  and  I  were  hurried  thence, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


With  Pelias  wounded,  and  without  de- 
fense. 

New  clamors  from  th'  invested  palace  ring: 
We  run  to  die,  or  disengage  the  king. 
So  hot  th'  assault,  so  high  the  tumult 

rose, 
While  ours  defend,  and  while  the  Greeks 

oppose, 

As  all  the  Dardan  and  Argolic  race 
Had  been  contracted  in  that  narrow  space; 
Or  as  all  Ilium  else  were  void  of  fear, 
And   tumult,   war,   and   slaughter,   only 

there. 

Their  targets  in  a  tortoise  cast,  the  foes, 
Secure  advancing,  to  the  turrets  rose: 
Some  mount  the  scaling  ladders;  some, 

more  bold, 
Swerve  upwards,  and  by  posts  and  pillars 

hold; 
Their  left  hand  gripes  their  bucklers  in  th' 

ascent, 

While  with  the  right  they  seize  the  battle- 
ment. 
From  their  demolish'd  tow'rs  the  Trojans 

throw 
Huge  heaps  of  stones,  that,  falling,  crush 

the  foe; 
And  heavy  beams  and  rafters  from  the 

sides 

(Such  arms  their  last  necessity  provides) 
And  gilded  roofs,  come  tumbling  from  on 

high, 

The  marks  of  state  and  ancient  royalty. 
The  guards  below,  fix'd  in  the  pass,  attend 
The  charge  undaunted,  and  the  gate  de- 
fend. 

Renew'd  in  courage  with  recover'd  breath, 
A  second  time  we  ran  to  tempt  our  death, 
To  clear  the  palace  from  the  foe,  succeed 
The  weary  living,  and  revenge  the  dead. 
"A  postern  door,  yet  unobserv'd  and 

free, 

Join'd  by  the  length  of  a  blind  gallery, 
To  the  king's  closet  led:  a  way  well  known 
To  Hector's  wife,  while  Priam  held  the 

throne, 

Thro'  which  she  brought  Astyanax,  un- 
seen, 
To  cheer  his  grandsire  and  his  grandsire's 

queen. 

Thro'  this  we  pass,  and  mount  the  tow'r, 
from  whence 


With  unavailing  arms  the  Trojans  make 
defense. 

From  this  the  trembling  king  had  oft  de- 
scried 

The  Grecian  camp,  and  saw  their  navy 
ride. 

Beams  from  its  lofty  height  with  swords 
we  hew, 

Then,  wrenching  with  our  hands,  th'  as- 
sault renew; 

And,  where  the  rafters  on  the  columns 
meet, 

We  push  them  headlong  with  our  arms  and 
feet. 

The  lightning  flies  not  swifter  than  the  fall, 

Nor  thunder  louder  than  the  ruin'd  wall: 

Down  goes  the  top  at  once;  the  Greeks  be- 
neath 

Are  piecemeal  torn,  or  pounded  into  death. 

Yet  more  succeed,  and  more  to  death  are 
sent; 

We  cease  not  from  above,  nor  they  below 
relent. 

Before  the  gate  stood  Pyrrhus,  threat'ning 
loud, 

With  glitt'ring  arms  conspicuous  in  the 
crowd. 

So  shines,  renew'd  in  youth,  the  crested 
snake, 

Who  slept  the  winter  in  a  thorny  brake, 

And,  casting  off  his  slough  when  spring 
returns, 

Now  looks  aloft,  and  with  new  glory  burns ; 

Restor'd  with  pois'nous  herbs,  his  ardent 
sides 

Reflect  the  sun;  and  rais'd  on  spires  he 
rides; 

High  o'er  the  grass,  hissing  he  rolls  along, 

And  brandishes  by  fits  his  forky  tongue. 

Proud  Periphas,  and  fierce  Automedon, 

His  father's  charioteer,  together  run 

To  force  the  gate;  the  Scyrian  infantry 

Rush  on  in  crowds,  and  the  barr'd  passage 
free. 

Ent'ring  the  court,  with  shouts  the  skies 
they  rend; 

And  flaming  firebrands  to  the  roofs  ascend. 

Himself,  among  the  foremost,  deals  his 
blows, 

And  with  his  ax  repeated  strokes  bestows 

On  the  strong  doors;  then  all  their  should- 
ers ply, 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Till  from  the  posts  the  brazen  hinges  fly. 

He  hews  apace;  the  double  bars  at  length 

Yield  to  his  ax  and  unresisted  strength. 

A  mighty  breach  is  made:  the  rooms  con- 
ceal'd 

Appear,  and  all  the  palace  is  reveal'd; 

The  halls  of  audience,  and  of  public  state, 

And  where  the  lonely  queen  in  secret  sate. 

Arm'd  soldiers  now  by  trembling  maids  are 
seen, 

With  not  a  door,  and  scarce  a  space,  be- 
tween. 

The  house  is  fill'd  with  loud  laments  and 
cries, 

And  shrieks  of  women  rend  the  vaulted 
skies; 

The  fearful  matrons  run  from  place  to 
place, 

And  kiss  the  thresholds,  and  the  posts  em- 
brace. 

The  fatal  work  inhuman  Pyrrhus  plies, 

And  all  his  father  sparkles  in  his  eyes; 

Nor  bars,  nor  fighting  guards,  his  force  sus- 
tain: 

The  bars  are  broken,  and  the  guards  are 
slain. 

In  rush  the  Greeks,  and  all  the  apartments 
fill; 

Those  few  defendants  whom  they  find, 
they  kill. 

Not  with  so  fierce  a  rage  the  foaming  flood 

Roars,  when  he  finds  his  rapid  course  with- 
stood; 

Bears  down  the  dams  with  unresisted 
sway, 

And  sweeps  the  cattle  and  the  cots  away. 

These  eyes  beheld  him  when  he  march'd 
between 

The  brother  kings:  I  saw  th'  unhappy 
queen, 

The  hundred  wives,  and  where  old  Priam 
stood, 

To  stain  his  hallow'd  altar  with  his  blood. 

The  fifty  nuptial  beds  (such  hopes  had  he, 

So  large  a  promise,  of  a  progeny), 

The  posts,  of  plated  gold,  and  hung  with 
spoils, 

Fell  the  reward  of  the  proud  victor's  toils. 

Where'er  the  raging  fire  had  left  a  space, 

The  Grecians  enter  and  possess  the  place. 
"Perhaps  you  may  of  Priam's  fate  en- 
quire. 


He,  when  he  saw  his  regal  town  on  fire, 

His  ruin'd  palace,  and  his  ent'ring  foes, 

On  ev'ry  side  inevitable  woes, 

In  arms,  disus'd,  invests  his  limbs,  de- 
cay'd, 

Like  them,  with  age;  a  late  and  useless  aid. 

His  feeble  shoulders  scarce  the  weight 
sustain; 

Loaded,  not  arm'd,  he  creeps  along  with 
pain, 

Despairing  of  success,  ambitious  to  be 
slain! 

Uncover'd  but  by  heav'n,  there  stood  in 
view 

An  altar;  near  the  hearth  a  laurel  grew, 

Dodder'd  with  age,  whose  boughs  encom- 
pass round 

The  household  gods,  and  shade  the  holy 
ground. 

Here  Hecuba,  with  all  her  helpless  train 

Of  dames,  for  shelter  sought,  but  sought  in 
vain. 

Driv'n  like  a  flock  of  doves  along  the  sky, 

Their  images  they  hug,  and  to  their  altars 
fly. 

The  queen,  when  she  beheld  her  trembling 
lord, 

And  hanging  by  his  side  a  heavy  sword, 

'What  rage,'  she  cried,  'has  seiz'd  my  hus- 
band's mind? 

What  arms  are  these,  and  to  what  use  de- 
sign'd? 

These  tunes  want  other  aids!  Were  Hec- 
tor here, 

Ev'n  Hector  now  in  vain,  like  Priam,  would 
appear. 

With  us,  one  common  shelter  thou  shalt 
find, 

Or  in  one  common  fate  with  us  be  join'd.' 

She  said,  and  with  a  last  salute  embrac'd 

The  poor  old  man,  and  by  the  laurel  plac'd. 

Behold!    Polites,  one  of  Priam's  sons, 

Pursued  by  Pyrrhus,  there  for  safety  runs. 

Thro'  swords  and  foes,  amaz'd  and  hurt,  he 
flies 

Thro'  empty  courts  and  open  galleries. 

Him  Pyrrhus,  urging  with  his  lance,  pur- 
sues, 

And  often  reaches,  and  his  thrusts  renews. 

The  youth,  transfix'd,  with  lamentable 
cries, 

Expires  before  his  wretched  parent's  eyes: 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


37 


Whom  gasping  at  his  feet  when  Priam  saw, 
The  fear  of  death  gave  place  to  nature's 

law; 
And,  shaking  more  with  anger  than  with 

age, 
'The  gods,'  said  he,  'requite  thy  brutal 

rage! 
As  sure  they  will,  barbarian,  sure  they 

must, 
If  there  be  gods  in  heav'n,  and  gods  be 

just — 

Who  tak'st  in  wrongs  an  insolent  delight; 
With  a  son's  death  t'  infect  a  father's 

sight. 

Not  he,  whom  thou  and  lying  fame  con- 
spire 

To  call  thee  his — not  he,  thy  vaunted  sire, 
Thus  us'd  my  wretched  age:  the  gods  he 

fear'd, 

The  laws  of  nature  and  of  nations  heard . 
He  cheer'd  my  sorrows,  and,  for  sums  of 

gold, 

The  bloodless  carcass  of  my  Hector  sold; 
Pitied  the  woes  a  parent  underwent, 
And  sent  me  back  in  safety  from  his  tent.' 
"This   said,  his  feeble  hand  a  javelin 

threw, 
Which,  flutt'ring,  seem'd  to  loiter  as  it 

flew: 

Just,  and  but  barely,  to  the  mark  it  held, 
And  faintly  tinkled  on  the  brazen  shield. 
"Then  Pyrrhus  thus: '  Go  thou  from  me 

to  fate, 

And  to  my  father  my  foul  deeds  relate. 
Now   die!'    With   that  he  dragg'd   the 

trembling  sire, 
Slidd'ring  thro'  clotter'd  blood  and  holy 

mire, 
(The  mingled  paste  his  murder'd  son  had 

made,) 

Haul'd  from  beneath  the  violated  shade, 
And  on  the  sacred  pile  the  royal  victim 

laid. 
His  right  hand  held  his  bloody  fauchion 

bare, 

His  left  he  twisted  in  his  hoary  hair ; 
Then,  with  a  speeding  thrust,  his  heart  he 

found: 
The  lukewarm  blood  came  rushing  thro' 

the  wound, 
And  sanguine  streams  distain'd  the  sacred 

grouvid. 


Thus  Priam  fell,  and  shar'd  one  common 

fate 

With  Troy  in  ashes,  and  his  ruin'd  state: 
He,  who  the  scepter  of  all  Asia  sway'd, 
Whom    monarchs    like    domestic    slaves 

obey'd. 
On  the  bleak  shore  now  lies  th'  abandon'd 

king, 

A  headless  carcass,  and  a  nameless  thing. 
"Then,  not  before,  I  felt  my  cruddleJ 

blood 
Congeal  with  fear,  my  hair  with  horror 

stood: 

My  father's  image  fill'd  my  pious  mind, 
Lest  equal  years  might  equal  fortune  find. 
Again  I  thought  on  my  forsaken  wife, 
And  trembled  for  my  son's  abandon'd  life. 
I  look'd  about,  but  found  myself  alone, 
Deserted  at  my  need!     My  friends  were 

gone. 
Some  spent  with  toil,  some  with  despair 

oppress'd, 
Leap'd  headlong  from  the  heights;  the 

flames  consum'd  the  rest. 
Thus,  wand'ring  in  my  way,  without  a 

guide, 

The  graceless  Helen  hi  the  porch  I  spied 
Of  Vesta's  temple;  there  she  lurk'd  alone; 
Muffled  she  sate,  and,  what  she  could,  un- 
known: 
But,  by  the  flames  that  cast  their  blaze 

around, 
That  common  bane  of  Greece  and  Troy  I 

found. 
For  Ilium  burnt,  she  dreads  the  Trojan 

sword; 
More  dreads  the  vengeance  of  her  injur'd 

lord; 
Ev'n  by  those  gods  who  refug'd  her  ab- 

horr'd. 
Trembling    with    rage,    the    strumpet    I 

regard, 

Resolv'd  to  give  her  guilt  the  due  reward : 
'Shall    she    triumphant    sail    before   the 

wind, 

And  leave  in  flames  unhappy  Troy  be- 
hind? 
Shall  she  her  kingdom  and  her  friends 

review, 

In  state  attended  with  a  captive  crew, 
While   unreveng'd   the  good  old   Priam 

falls, 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


And  Grecian  fires  consume  the  Trojan 
walls? 

For  this  the  Phrygian  fields  and  Xanthian 
flood 

Were  swell'd  with  bodies,  and  were  drunk 
with  blood? 

'T  is  true,  a  soldier  can  small  honor  gain, 

And  boast  no  conquest,  from  a  woman 
slain : 

Yet  shall  the  fact  not  pass  without  ap- 
plause, 

Of  vengeance  taken  in  so  just  a  cause; 

The  punish'd  crime  shall  set  my  soul  at 
ease, 

And  murm'ring  manes  of  my  friends 
appease.' 

Thus  while  I  rave,  a  gleam  of  pleasing 
light 

Spread  o'er  the  place;  and, shining  heav'nly 
bright, 

My  mother  stood  reveal'd  before  my  sight. 

Never  so  radiant  did  her  eyes  appear; 

Not  her  own  star  confess'd  a  light  so  clear: 

Great  in  her  charms,  as  when  on  gods 
above 

She  looks,  and  breathes  herself  into  their 
love. 

She  held  my  hand,  the  destin'd  blow  to 
break; 

Then  from  her  rosy  lips  began  to  speak: 

'My  son,  from  whence  this  madness,  this 
neglect 

Of  my  commands,  and  those  whom  I  pro- 
tect? 

Why  this  unmanly  rage?    Recall  to  mind 

Whom  you  forsake,  what  pledges  leave 
behind. 

Look  if  your  helpless  father  yet  survive, 

Or  if  Ascanius  or  Creiisa  live. 

Around  your  house  the  greedy  Grecians 
err; 

And  these  had  perish'd  in  the  nightly  war, 

But  for  my  presence  and  protecting  care. 

Not  Helen's  face,  nor  Paris,  was  in  fault; 

But  by  the  gods  was  this  destruction 
brought. 

Now  cast  your  eyes  around,  while  I  dis- 
solve 

The  mists  and  films  that  mortal  eyes  in- 
volve, 

Purge  from  your  sight  the  dross,  and  make 
you  see 


The  shape  of  each  avenging  deity. 

Enlighten'd  thus,  my  just  commands  ful- 
fil, 

Nor  fear  obedience  to  your  mother's  will. 

Where  yon  disorder'd  heap  of  ruin  lies, 

Stones  rent  from  stones;  where  clouds  of 
dust  arise — 

Amid  that  smother  Neptune  holds  his 
place, 

Below  the  wall's  foundation  drives  his 
mace, 

And  heaves  the  building  from  the  solid  base. 

Look  where,  in  arms,  imperial  Juno  stands 

Full  in  the  Scaean  gate,  with  loud  com- 
mands, 

Urging  on  shore  the  tardy  Grecian  bands. 

See!  Pallas,  of  her  snaky  buckler  proud, 

Bestrides  the  tow'r,  refulgent  thro'  the 
cloud: 

See!  Jove  new  courage  to  the  foe  supplies, 

And  arms  against  the  town  the  partial 
deities. 

Haste  hence,  my  son;  this  fruitless  labor 
end: 

Haste,  where  your  trembling  spouse  and 
sire  attend: 

Haste;  and  a  mother's  care  your  passage 
shall  befriend.' 

She  said,  and  swiftly  vanish'd  from  my 
sight, 

Obscure  in  clouds  and  gloomy  shades  of 
night. 

I  look'd,  I  listen'd;  dreadful  sounds  I  hear; 

And  the  dire  forms  of  hostile  gods  appear. 

Troy  sunk  in  flames  I  saw  (nor  could  pre- 
vent), 

And  Ilium  from  its  old  foundations  rent; 

Rent  like  a  mountain  ash,  which  dar'd  the 
winds, 

And  stood  the  sturdy  strokes  of  lab 'ring 
hinds. 

About  the  roots  the  cruel  ax  resounds; 

The  stumps  are  pierc'd  with  oft-repeated 
wounds: 

The  war  is  felt  on  high;  the  nodding  crown 

Now  threats  a  fall,  and  throws  the  leafy 
honors  down. 

To  their  united  force  it  yields,  tho'  late, 

And  mourns  with  mortal  groans  th'  ap- 
proaching fate: 

The  roots  no  more  their  upper  load  sus- 
tain; 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


39 


But  down  she  falls,  and  spreads  a  ruin 

thro'  the  plain. 
"Descending  thence,  I  scape  thro'  foes 

and  fire: 

Before  the  goddess,  foes  and  flames  retire. 
Arriv'd  at  home,  he,  for  whose  only  sake, 
Or  most  for  his,  such  toils  I  undertake, 
The   good   Anchises,    whom,   by   timely 

flight, 

I  purpos'd  to  secure  on  Ida's  height, 
Refus'd  the  journey,  resolute  to  die 
And  add  his  fun'rals  to  the  fate  of  Troy, 
Rather  than  exile  and  old  age  sustain. 
'  Go  you,  whose  blood  runs  warm  in  ev'ry 

vein. 

Had  Heav'n  decreed  that  I  should  life  en- 
joy* 

Heav'n  had  decreed  to  save  unhappy  Troy. 
'T  is,  sure,  enough,  if  not  too  much,  for 

one, 

Twice  to  have  seen  our  Ilium  overthrown. 
Make  haste  to  save  the  poor  remaining 

crew, 

And  give  this  useless  corpse  a  long  adieu. 
These  weak  old  hands  suffice  to  stop  my 

breath; 
At  least  the  pitying  foes  will  aid  my 

death, 
To  take  my  spoils,  and  leave  my  body 

bare: 

As  for  my  sepulcher,  let  Heav'n  take  care. 
'T  is  long  since  I,  for  my  celestial  wife 
Loath'd  by  the  gods,  have  dragg'd  a  ling- 

'ring  life; 

Since  ev'ry  hour  and  moment  I  expire, 
Blasted  from  heav'n  by  Jove's  avenging 

fire.' 

This  oft  repeated,  he  stood  fix'd  to  die: 
Myself,  my  wife,  my  son,  my  family, 
Intreat,  pray,  beg,  and  raise  a  doleful  cry — 
'What,  will  he  still  persist,  on  death  re- 
solve, 

And  in  his  ruin  all  his  house  involve!' 
He  still  persists  his  reasons  to  maintain; 
Our  pray'rs,  our  tears,  our  loud  laments, 

are  vain. 

"Urg'd  by  despair,  again  I  go  to  try 
The  fate  of  arms,  resolv'd  in  fight  to  die: 
'What  hope  remains,  but  what  my  death 

must  give? 

Can  I,  without  so  dear  a  father,  live? 
You  term  it  prudence,  what  I  baseness  call: 


Could  such  a  word  from  such  a  parent 

fall? 

If  Fortune  please,  and  so  the  gods  or- 
dain, 

That  nothing  should  of  ruin'd  Troy  re- 
main, 

And  you  conspire  with  Fortune  to  be  slain, 
The  way  to  death  is  wide,  th'  approaches 

near: 

For  soon  relentless  Pyrrhus  will  appear, 
Reeking  with  Priam's  blood — the  wretch 

who  slew 

The  son  (inhuman)  in  the  father's  view, 
And  then  the  sire  himself  to  the  dire  altar 
drew. 

0  goddess  mother,  give  me  back  to  Fate; 
Your  gift  was  undesir'd,  and  came  too  late ! 
Did  you,  for  this,  unhappy  me  convey 
Thro'  foes  and  fires,  to  see  my  house  a 

prey? 

Shall  I  my  father,  wife,  and  son  behold, 

Welt'ring  in  blood,  each  other's  arms  in- 
fold? 

Haste !  gird  my  sword,  tho'  spent  and  over- 
come: 

'T  is  the  last  summons  to  receive  our  doom. 

1  hear  thee,  Fate;  and  I  obey  thy  call! 
Not  unreveng'd  the  foe  shall  see  my  fall. 
Restore  me  to  the  yet  unfinish'd  fight: 
My  death  is  wanting  to  conclude  the 

night.' 
Arm'd  once  again,  my  glitt'ring  sword  I 

wield, 
While  th'  other  hand  sustains  my  weighty 

shield, 
And  forth  I  rush  to  seek  th'  abandon'd 

field. 

I  went;  but  sad  Creiisa  stopp'd  my  way, 
And  cross  the  threshold  in  my  passage  lay, 
Embrac'd  my  knees,  and,  when  I  would 

have  gone, 

Shew'd  me  my  feeble  sire  and  tender  son: 
'  If  death  be  your  design,  at  least,'  said  she, 
'Take  us  along  to  share  your  destiny. 
If  any  farther  hopes  in  arms  remain, 
This  place,  these  pledges  of  your  love, 

maintain. 

To  whom  do  you  expose  your  father's  life, 
Your  son's,  and  mine,  your  now  forgotten 

wife!' 
While  thus  she  fills  the  house  with  clam'r- 

ous  cries. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Our  hearing  is  diverted  by  our  eyes: 

For,  while  I  held  my  son,  in  the  short  space 

Betwixt  our  kisses  and  our  last  embrace; 

Strange  to  relate,  from  young  lulus'  head 

A    lambent   flame    arose,    which    gently 
spread 

Around  his  brows,  and  on  his  temples  fed. 

Amaz'd,  with  running  water  we  prepared 

To  quench  the  sacred  fire,  and  slake  his 
hair; 

But  old  Anchises,  vers'd  in  omens,  rear'd 

His  hands  to  heav'n,  and  this  request  pre- 
ferr'd: 

'  If  any  vows,  almighty  Jove,  can  bend 

Thy  will;  if  piety  can  pray'rs  commend, 

Confirm  the  glad  presage  which  thou  art 
pleas'd  to  send.' 

Scarce  had  he  said,  when,  on  our  left,  we 
hear 

A  peal  of  rattling  thunder  roll  in  air: 

There  shot  a  streaming  lamp  along  the 
sky, 

Which  on  the  winged  lightning  seem'd  to 
fly; 

From  o'er  the  roof  the  blaze  began  to 
move, 

And,  trailing,  vanish'd  hi  th'  Idaean  grove. 

It  swept  a  path  in  heav'n,  and  shone  a 
guide, 

Then  in  a  steaming  stench  of  sulphur  died. 
"The  good  old   man  with   suppliant 
hands  implor'd 

The  gods'  protection,  and  their  star  ador'd. 

'Now,  now,'  said  he,  'my  son,  no  more  de- 
lay! 

I  yield,  I  follow  where  Heav'n  shews  the 
way. 

Keep,  O  my  country  gods,  our  dwelling 
place, 

And  guard  this  relic  of  the  Trojan  race, 

This  tender  child!    These  omens  are  your 
own, 

And  you  can  yet  restore  the  ruin'd  town. 

At  least  accomplish  what  your  signs  fore- 
show: 

I  stand  resign'd,  and  am  prepar'd  to  go.' 
"He  said.    The  crackling  flames  appear 
on  high, 

And  driving  sparkles  dance  along  the  sky. 

With  Vulcan's  rage  the  rising  winds  con- 
spire, 

And  near  our  palace  roll  the  flood  of  fire. 


'Haste,  my  dear  father  ('t  is  no  time  to 

wait), 
And  load  my  shoulders  with  a  willing 

freight. 
Whate'er  befalls,  your  life  shall  be  my 

care; 
One  death,  or  one  deliv'rance,  we  will 

share. 

My  hand  shall  lead  our  little  son;  and  you, 
My  faithful  consort,  shall  our  steps  pursue. 
Next,  you,  my  servants,  heed  my  strict 

commands : 

Without  the  walls  a  ruin'd  temple  stands, 
To  Ceres  hallow'd  once;  a  cypress  nigh 
Shoots  up  her  venerable  head  on  high, 
By  long  religion  kept;  there  bend  your 

feet, 

And  in  divided  parties  let  us  meet. 
Our  country  gods,   the  relics,   and   the 

bands, 
Hold  you,  my  father,  in  your  guiltless 

hands: 

In  me  't  is  impious  holy  things  to  bear, 
Red  as  I  am  with  slaughter,  new  from  wa*, 
Till  in  some  living  stream  I  cleanse  t^e 

guilt 

Of  dire  debate,  and  blood  in  battle  spilt.' 
Thus,  ord'ring  all  that  prudence  could  pro- 
vide, 

I  clothe  my  shoulders  with  a  lion's  hide 
And  yellow  spoils;  then,  on  my  bending 

back, 

The  welcome  load  of  my  dear  father  take; 
While  on  my  better  hand  Ascanius  hung, 
And  with  unequal  paces  tripp'd  along. 
Creiisa  kept  behind;  by  choice  we  stray 
Thro'  ev'ry  dark  and  ev'ry  devious  way. 
I,  who  so  bold  and  dauntless,  just  before, 
The  Grecian  darts  and  shock  of  lances 

bore, 

At  ev'ry  shadow  now  am  seiz'd  with  fear, 
Not  for  myself,  but  for  the  charge  I  bear; 
Till,  near  the  ruin'd  gate  arriv'd  at  last, 
Secure,  and  deeming  all  the  danger  past, 
A  frightful  noise  of  trampling  feet  we  hear. 
My  father,  looking  thro'  the  shades,  with 

fear, 
Cried  out:  'Haste,  haste,  my  son,  the  foes 

are  nigh; 

Their  swords  and  shining  armor  I  descry.' 
Some  hostile  god,  for  some  unknown  of- 
fense, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Had  sure  bereft  my  mind  of  better  sense; 
For,  while  thro'  winding  ways  I  took  my 

flight, 
And  sought  the  shelter  of  the  gloomy 

night, 

Alas!  I  lost  Creiisa:  hard  to  tell 
If  by  her  fatal  destiny  she  fell, 
Or  weary  sate,  or  wander 'd  with  affright; 
But  she  was  lost  for  ever  to  my  sight. 
I  knew  not,  or  reflected,  till  I  meet 
My  friends,  at  Ceres'  now  deserted  seat. 
We  met:  not  one  was  wanting;  only  she 
Deceiv'd  her  friends,  her  son,  and  wretched 

me. 
"What  mad  expressions  did  my  tongue 

refuse! 

Whom  did  I  not,  of  gods  or  men,  accuse! 
This  was  the  fatal  blow,  that  pain'd  me 

more 

Than  all  I  felt  from  ruin'd  Troy  before. 
Stung  with  my  loss,  and  raving  with  de- 
spair, 

Abandoning  my  now  forgotten  care, 
Of  counsel,  comfort,  and  of  hope  bereft, 
My  sire,  my  son,  my  country  gods  I  left. 
In  shining  armor  once  again  I  sheathe 
My  limbs,  not  feeling  wounds,  nor  fearing 

death. 

Then  headlong  to  the  burning  walls  I  run, 
And  seek  the  danger  I  was  forc'd  to  shun. 
I  tread  my  former  tracks;  thro'  night  ex- 
plore 

Each  passage,  ev'ry  street  I  cross'd  before. 
All  things  were  full  of  horror  and  affright, 
And  dreadful  ev'n  the  silence  of  the  night. 
Then  to  my  father's  house  I  make  repair, 
With  some  small  glimpse  of  hope  to  find 

her  there. 

Instead  of  her,  the  cruel  Greeks  I  met; 
The  house  was  fill'd  with  foes,  with  flames 

beset. 
Driv'n  on  the  wings  of  winds,  whole  sheets 

of  fire, 

Thro'  air  transported,  to  the  roofs  aspire. 
From  thence  to  Priam's  palace  I  resort, 
And  search  the  citadel  and  desert  court. 
Then,  unobserv'd,  I  pass  by  Juno's  church: 
A  guard  of  Grecians  had  possess'd  the 

porch; 
There  Phoenix  and   Ulysses   watch    the 

prey, 
And  thither  all  the  wealth  of  Troy  convey: 


The  spoils   which   they  from  ransack'd 

houses  brought, 
And  golden  bowls  from  burning  altars 

caught, 

The  tables  of  the  gods,  the  purple  vests, 
The  people's  treasure,  and  the  pomp  of 

priests. 
A  rank  of  wretched  youths,  with  pinion'd 

hands, 

And  captive  matrons,  in  long  order  stands . 
Then,  with  ungovern'd  madness,  I  pro- 
claim, 

Thro'  all  the  silent  street,  Creiisa's  name: 
Creiisa  still  I  call;  at  length  she  hears, 
And  sudden  thro'  the  shades  of  night  ap- 
pears— 

Appears,  no  more  Creiisa,  nor  my  wife, 
But  a  pale  specter,  larger  than  the  life. 
Aghast,  astonish'd,  and  struck  dumb  with 

fear, 

I  stood;  like  bristles  rose  my  stiff en'd  hair. 
Then  thus  the  ghost  began  to  soothe  my 

grief: 
'Nor  tears,  nor  cries,  can  give  the  dead 

relief. 
Desist,  my  much-lov'd  lord,  t'  indulge  your 

pain; 
You  bear  no  more  than  what  the  gods 

ordain. 

My  fates  permit  me  not  from  hence  to  fly; 
Nor  he,  the  great  controller  of  the  sky. 
Long  wand'ring  ways  for  you  the  pow'rs 

decree; 

On  land  hard  labors,  and  a  length  of  sea. 
Then,  after  many  painful  years  are  past, 
On  Latium's  happy  shore  you  shall  be  cast, 
Where  gentle  Tiber  from  his  bed  beholds 
The  flow'ry  meadows,  and  the  feeding 

folds. 
There  end  your  toils;  and  there  your  fates 

provide 

A  quiet  kingdom,  and  a  royal  bride: 
There  fortune  shall  the  Trojan  line  restore, 
And  you  for  lost  Creiisa  weep  no  more. 
Fear  not  that  I  shall  watch,  with  servile 

shame, 
Th'  imperious  looks  of  some  proud  Grecian 

dame; 

Or,  stooping  to  the  victor's  lust,  disgrace 
My  goddess  mother,  or  my  royal  race. 
And  now,  farewell!    The  parent  of  the 

gods 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Restrains  my  fleeting  soul  in  her  abodes: 
I  trust  our  common  issue  to  your  care.' 
She  said,  and  gliding  pass'd   unseen  in 

air. 
I  strove  to  speak:  but  horror  tied   my 

tongue; 

And  thrice  about  her  neck  my  arms  I  flung, 
And,  thrice  deceiv'd,  on  vain  embraces 

hung. 

Light  as  an  empty  dream  at  break  of  day, 
Or  as  a  blast  of  wind,  she  rush'd  away. 
"Thus  having  pass'd  the  night  in  fruit- 
less pain, 

I  to  my  longing  friends  return  again, 
Amaz'd  th'  augmented  number  to  behold, 


Of  men  and  matrons  mix'd,  of  young  and 

old; 

A  wretched  exiPd  crew  together  brought, 
With  arms  appointed,  and  with  treasure 

fraught, 

Resolv'd,  and  willing,  under  my  command, 
To  run  all  hazards  both  of  sea  and  land. 
The  Morn  began,  from  Ida,  to  display 
Her  rosy  cheeks;  and  Phosphor  led  the 

day: 
Before  the  gates  the  Greci'ans  took  their 

post, 

And  all  pretense  of  late  relief  was  lost. 
I  yield  to  Fate,  unwillingly  retire, 
And,  loaded,  up  the  hill  convey  my  sire." 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI 

Dante  Alighieri  is  usually  regarded  as  one  of  the  greatest  poets  who  have  ever  written  in  any  language 
or  at  any  time  within  the  knowledge  of  civilized  man.  In  poetic  power,  uniformity  of  excellence,  and 
extent  of  fame  only  Shakespeare  and  Homer  equal  him,  and  nobody  is  credited  with  being  his  superior. 
He  was  born  in  Florence,  Italy,  in  1265,  and  he  died  in  Ravenna  in  1321.  He  was  a  member  of  a  family 
of  some  slight  prominence,  and  this,  together  with  his  marriage  to  a  woman  who  had  influential  con- 
nections, and  his  native  ability  and  reputation  as  a  poet,  enabled  him  to  take  a  conspicuous  part  in  the 
politics  of  Florence  and  to  rise  to  be  one  of  its  chief  magistrates.  He  was,  however,  falsely  accused  of 
corruption  in  office,  and  he  spent  the  last  nineteen  years  of  his  life  as  an  exile  with  a  price  on  his  head. 

Partly  as  a  result  of  his  burning  indignation  at  the  treachery  and  baseness  of  the  politicians  who  had 
traduced  him  and,  in  his  opinion,  were  ruining  Italy  and  undermining  civilization,  and  partly  because  of 
his  profoundly  religious  nature,  he  produced  during  the  wanderings  imposed  by  his  exile  the  work  on 
which  his  fame  as  a  world  poet  largely  depends.  He  called  it  Dante  Alighieri's  "Comedy,"  because  it 
had  a  happy  ending;  but  admiring  posterity  has  added  the  term  "Divine"  to  his  title,  to  indicate  its 
superlative  excellence. 

The  "Divine  Comedy"  is  a  very  complex  work.  It  is  the  story  of  a  journey  made  by  Dante,  while 
he  was  still  alive,  through  Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise.  The  opportunity  to  make  this  journey  in  or- 
der that  he  might  learn  the  nature  of  sin  and  avoid  it,  was  secured  for  Dante  by  the  intervention  of  a 
certain  Beatrice  who  had  known  him  on  earth  before  her  death  and  ascension  to  Heaven.  She  secured 
divine  permission  to  have  the  spirit  of  Virgil  lead  him  through  Hell  and  Purgatory,  and  she  herself 
conducted  him  through  Paradise. 

Hell,  according  to  Dante,  is  a  hollow  cone  with  its  apex  in  the  centre  of  the  earth,  and  nine  circles 
around  its  sides  in  which  the  damned  suffer  according  to  the  degree  of  their  guilt.  Near  the  top  are 
the  shiners  who  have  yielded  to  natural  impulses:  lust,  gluttony,  avarice,  anger.  Then  come  sins  by 
which  the  human  intellect  is  perverted  and  made  an  instrument  of  evil,  that  is,  voluntary  sins,  as  the 
others  are  more  or  less  involuntary.  The  first  of  these  have  violence  as  their  foundation,  and  include : 
heresy,  tyranny,  self-destruction,  and  insensate  covetousness.  Finally,  in  the  two  lowest  circles  are  the 
basest  of  all  sins,  those  of  which  fraud  and  malice  are  the  instigation,  and  cunning  and  treachery  the  means 
of  accomplishment.  Such  sinners  are:  seducers,  flatterers,  simonists,  diviners,  grafters,  hypocrites, 
thieves,  false  counsellors,  sowers  of  dissension,  and  forgers.  In  the  lowest  circle  of  all  are  murderers, 
first  those  who  have  betrayed  their  country,  then  those  who  have  killed  their  friends  or  hosts,  and 
finally  those  who  have  murdered  their  benefactors. 

Purgatory  is  a  mountain  in  the  Southern  Hemisphere,  with  its  summit  directly  opposite  Jerusalem 
and  its  base  washed  by  an  ocean  that  covers  the  whole  southern  half  of  the  earth.  Around  the  sides 
of  this  mountain  run  seven  terraces  in  which  repentant  sinners  are  purged  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins: 
Pride,  Envy,  Anger,  Sloth,  Avarice,  Gluttony,  and  Lust.  On  the  top  of  the  mountain  is  the  Earthly 
Paradise,  in  which  beneficent  worldly  activity  is  symbolically  depicted. 

Paradise  is  a  series  of  ten  circular  heavens,  each  of  which  revolves  around  the  earth  as  its  center, 
for  Dante  followed  the  Ptolomaic  system  of  astronomy,  which  regarded  the  sun  as  a  planet  moving  around 
the  earth.  These  heavens  are:  those  of  the  Moon,  Mercury,  Venus,  the  Sun,  Mars,  Jupiter,  Saturn, 
the  Fixed  Stars,  the  Primum  Mobile  or  revolving  sphere  which  imparts  motion  to  all  the  others  within 
it,  and  finally,  the  spaceless  and  motionless  Empyrean  in  which  God  dwells. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


43 


THE  INFERNO 

The  selection  here  given  is  from  the  "Inferno,"  and  it  deals  with  the  increasing  difficulty  and  danger 
Dante  and  Virgil  encounter  as  they  go  deeper  and  deeper  into  Hell.  In  order  to  appreciate  Dante  at  all 
intelligently,  it  is  necessary  to  recognize  that  the  chief  significance  of  his  work  is  figurative.  He  is  gen- 
erally thought  of  as  remarkable  for  the  power  of  imagination  he  displays  by  which  he  makes  the  unreal 
seem  real,  and  while  he  does  display  great  power  and  skill  in  this  respect,  his  main  success  lies  in  his 
having  made  his  poem  an  analysis  of  human  life  and  an  exhaustive  description  of  moral  experiences. 
His  poem  tells  us  that  the  human  being  whose  mind  is  impelled  by  lust,  torn  by  anger,  impeded  by  weak- 
ness of  character,  or  distorted  by  malice,  is  in  Hell  just  as  effectively  as  the  sinners  he  so  graphically 
and  convincingly  describes;  that  the  person  who  has  suffered  for  his  sins  and  is  trying  to  overcome 
them  has  both  anguish  and  joy  like  the  inmates  of  his  Purgatory;  and  that  those  who  have  attained  to 
peace  of  mind  and  faith  in  the  goodness  and  ultimate  justness  of  the  Creator's  plans  are  in  Heaven, 
enjoying  delights  no  less  sweet  than  those  he  pictures. 

The  allegory  of  the  selection  here  translated  is  not  easy  to  make  clear  without  considerable  explana- 
tion. Virgil  typifies  reason,  and  reason  enables  us  to  contemplate  sin  without  becoming  its  victim. 
Reason  also  abhors  anger  and  violence,  hence  Virgil's  treatment  of  Filippo  Argenti.  It,  however,  takes 
something  more  than  reason  to  enable  a  person  to  come  closely  enough  in  contact  with  sin  to  understand 
it  and  yet  not  become  addicted  to  it.  This  something  is  a  good  fortune  so  unusual  as  to  seem  the  direct 
intervention  of  Heaven,  and  it  is  this  that  the  angel  that  opens  the  City  of  Dis  typifies.  Medusa  is 
despair,  for  it  is  impossible  to  perceive  the  full  wickedness  of  the  human  heart  without  being  frozen  into 
hopelessness;  reason  therefore  bids  us  avert  our  gaze  from  wanton  evil,  lest  we  despair.  This  seems  to 
be  the  main  teaching  that  is  "hidden  behind  the  curtain  of  the  verses  strange,"  about  which,  however, 
endless  volumes  have  been  written. 

Translations  of  Dante  are  very  numerous,  but  none  as  yet  has  been  very  successful.  The  usual 
criticism  is  that  they  do  not  present  Dante  so  much  as  they  do  his  translator,  and  this  translation  there- 
fore attempts  to  be  as  literal  as  is  consistent  with  smoothness,  for  Dante  is  never  rough  from  necessity, 
though  he  often  is  from  choice.  This  translation  is  also  in  verse,  because  nobody  can  get  an  idea  of  a 
poem  in  verse  by  reading  it  in  prose.  It  does  not,  however,  contain  any  rhyme  words,  and  each  line 
corresponds  to  the  line  it  renders  in  the  original,  except  for  very  slight  occasional  variations.  It  is  hoped 
in  this  way  that  two  things  at  least  will  be  conveyed  by  the  translation:  first,  Dante's  thought  in  approxi- 
mately the  order  and  language  in  which  he  expressed  it,  and  second,  the  fact  that  that  thought  is  con- 
veyed in  metrical  language  and  in  rhyme. 

[This  note  and  the  translation  have  been  made  by  Sidney  A.  Gunn,  a  member  of  the  Department  of 
English  and  Curator  of  the  United  States  Naval  Academy.] 


CANTO  VIII 

CONTINUING,  I  say  that  long  before 
To  that  high  tower's  foot  we  had  drawn 

nigh, 

Our  eyes  went  carefully  its  summit  o'er; 
Because  two  flames  placed  there  we  could 

descry, 

And  from  so  far  another's  answer  flit 
That  hardly  could  we  catch  it  with  the 

eye. 
I,  turning  to  the  ocean  of  all  wit, 

Said:  "What  says  this?  and  what  has 

just  replied 

That  other  flame?  and  who  does  it  trans- 
mit?" 

And  he  to  me:  "Above  the  filthy  tide 
Already  thou  can'st  see  him  they  attend, 
Unless  the  marsh's  smoke  it  from  thee 

hide." 
Cord  never  yet  did  arrow  from  it  send 


Which  made  its  way  so  quickly  through 

the  ah", 

As  I  beheld  a  tiny  shallop  wend 
Its  way  and  towards  us  o'er  the  waters 

fare 

Which  but  a  single  oarsman  did  contain 
Who  cried:  "Now  cruel  spirit,  art  thou 

there?" 
"O  Phlegyas,  Phlegyas,  thou  dost  cry  in 

vain 
This  time,"  exclaimed  to  him  thereat 

my  sage. 
"Thou'lt  have  us  but  while  o'er  the 

swamp  we're  ta'en." 
As  one  who  hears  about  a  great  outrage 
Against  himself,  and  then  doth  it  resent, 
So  acted  Phlegyas  in  his  swollen  rage. 
Then  down  into  the  bark  my  master  went, 
And  after  him  he  made  me  enter  too; 
And  I  alone  had  weight  'neath  which  it 

bent. 


44 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


As  quickly  as  the  boat  received  us  two, 
It  started  forth  and  with  its  ancient 

prow 

Cut  deeper  far  than  it  was  wont  to  do. 
While  we  were  passing  o'er  the  stagnant 

slough, 
A  shade,  that  full  of  slime  rose  from  the 

deep, 
Cried:  "Soul  here  ere  thy  time,  pray 

who  art  thou?  " 
"Although  I  come,  the  place  shall  not  me 

keep," 
I  said,  "but  who  art  thou  thus  foul?" 

and  he: 
"Thou  seest  I  am  one  of  those  who 

weep." 
And  I  to  him:  "May  tears  and  mourning 

be, 

Accursed  spirit,  evermore  thy  share, 
For  though  so  foul  thou  yet  art  known 

to  me." 
Then  both  his  hands  towards  the  boat  he 

bare, 

But  him  my  watchful  guide  at  once  re- 
pressed, 

And  said:  "  Unto  the  other  dogs  repair." 
Then  me  with  both  his  arms  he  to  him 

pressed, 
And  kissing  me:  "Disdainful  soul,"  he 

said, 
"  May  she  by  whom  thou  wert  conceived 

be  blest. 
A  life  of  brutal  arrogance  he  led; 

His  name  no  goodness  into  honor  brings, 

And  this  such  fury  in  his  shade  has  bred. 

How  many  who  themselves  think  mighty 

kings 
Shall  here  be  as  the  swine  are  in  the 

mire, 
About  whose  name  the  vilest  memory 

clings." 

And  I:  "My  master,  much  do  I  desire 
To  see  him  plunged  within  this  filthy 

swill, 

Before  we  from  the  gloomy  lake  retire." 
And  he  to  me:  "  Before  the  shore  there  will 
Be  visible,  thou  shalt  be  satisfied; 
For  such  a  wish  'tis  proper  to  fulfil." 
Soon  after  that  I  saw  to  him  applied 
Such  torments  by  the  muddy  people 

there, 
That  for  it  since  I  God  have  glorified. 


"At  Filippo  Argenti,"  everywhere 
They  cried,  and  that  shade  Florentine 

irate 

Began  himself  with  his  own  teeth  to  tear. 
We  left,  and  I'll  no  more  of  him  relate. 
But  now  a  wailing  struck  upon  my  ear 
Which    made    me    open-eyed,    intent, 

await. 
My  master  said:  "My  son,  now  draweth 

near 

That  city  which  the  name  of  Dis  ac- 
quires, 

With  all  its  crowds,  and  citizens  aus- 
tere." 
"Master,"  said  I,  "already  mosques  and 

spires 

Yonder  within  its  walls  seem  red  to  be, 
As  if  they  all  were  issuing  from  fires." 
"The  fire  eternal,"  he  said  unto  me, 
"Which  kindles  them  within,  red  makes 

them  gleam 
Within  this  lower  hell,  as  thou  can'st 

see." 

Fosses  we  entered  now  of  depth  extreme, 
Which  moat  all  round  that  city  desolate, 
Whose  walls  to  me  did  made  of  iron 

seem. 

But  not  until  we  made  a  circuit  great 
Came  we  to  where  the  boatman  loudly 

cried: 
"Now  get  ye  forth,  for  yonder  is  the 

gate." 

Upon  the  walls  I  thousands  there  descried 
Whom  heaven  rained  down,  who  thus 

in  anger  spoke: 
"Who  is  he,  who,  although  he  has  not 

died, 
Goes  thus  throughout  the  kingdom  of  dead 

folk?" 

My  master  wise  thereat  a  signal  made 
That  he  would  secret  speech  with  them 

invoke. 
Then,  with  their  mighty  scorn  somewhat 

allayed, 
They  said:  "Come  thou  alone,  but  send 

him  back 

Who  comes  within  this  realm  so  un- 
afraid. 

Alone  let  him  retrace  that  reckless  track, 
If  so  he  can,  for  thou  shalt  here  remain 
Who   him   hath   guided   through    this 
region  black." 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Think,  reader,  whether  fear  did  o'er  me 

reign, 
When  I  heard  speak  like  this  that  cursed 

corps; 

For  here  I  thought  ne'er  to  return  again! 
"0  guide  beloved  who  hast  seven  times 

and  more 

Secure  me  rendered  and  me  safely  won 
From  perils  that  arose  to  whelm  me  o'er, 
Leave  me  not  here,"  I  said,  "  thus  all  un- 
done, 

And  if  the  passage  further  is  denied, 
Let  us  retrace  at  once  the  path  begun." 
Then  said  that  lord  who  unto  me  was 

guide : 
"Fear  not  that  we  this  passage  must 

forego; 

No  one  can  take  what  one  so  great  sup- 
plied. 
But  wait  me  here,  and  feed  they  spirits 

low 

With  hopes  of  better  fortunes  that  im- 
pend, 

For  thee  I  leave  not  in  the  world  below." 
Thus  then  went  forth  and  left  me  to 

attend, 

My  father  kind,  and  I  remained  in  fear 
While  yes  and  no  did  in  my  head  con- 
tend. 
The  words  he  offered  them  I  could  not 

hear, 
But  long  they  did  not  there  with  him 

await ; 

For,  rushing  back  again  in  mad  career, 
Our  adversaries  quickly  shut  the  gate 
Upon  my  leader,  who  outside  forlorn 
Came  back  to  me  with  slow  and  solemn 

gait. 
His  eyes  were  on  the  ground;  his  brows 

were  shorn 
Of  boldness,  and  he  murmured,  with  a 

sigh, 
"Who  shuts  me  from  the  house  where 

spirits  mourn?" 

And  then  to  me:  "Though  I  in  anger  cry, 
Do  thou  not  fear,  The  test  I  will  sustain, 
Whatever  hindrance  they  within  may 

try. 

Not  new  to  them  is  this  defiance  vain. 
Once  at  a  gate  less  secret  they  it  tried; 
One  that  does  yet  without  a  bar  remain. 
O'er  it  the  dead  inscription  thou  descried. 


And  now  this  side  of  it  descends  the 

slope, 
Passing  the  circles  through  without  a 

guide, 
One  who  for  us  the  city  there  shall  ope." 

CANTO  DC 

THAT  color  fear    my    countenance   had 

stained, 

When  I  beheld  my  leader  turning  back, 
In  him  more  quickly  his  new  tint  re- 
strained. 

He  stopped,  as  if  to  listen,  in  the  track; 
For  little  was  the  distance  one  could  see 
Through  fog  so  heavy  and  through  air  so 

black. 

"Yet  in  the  fight  we  must  win  victory," 
He  said;  "if  not    .    .    .    when  guar- 
anteed such  aid. 
Till  some  one  comes  how  long  it  seems 

tome!" 

I  well  perceived  how  he  a  cover  made 
For  his  beginning  with  what  last  he  said, 
Which   different   sense   from  his  first 

words  conveyed. 
But  none  the  less  his  language  made  me 

dread, 

Because,  perhaps  in  what  he  broke  off  so, 
A  meaning  worse  than  his  intent  I  read. 
"Within  this  dreary  shell  thus  far  below, 
Comes  ever  spirit  of  the  first  degree, 
Whose  only  pain  is  hope  cut  off  to 

know?" 

Thus  questioned  I,  and:  "Rarely,"  an- 
swered he, 

"  Is  it  that  any  one  of  us  goes  through 
This  region  that  is  now  traversed  by  me. 
Down  once  before  was  I  this  way,  'tis  true, 
Here  conjured  by  insensate  Erichtho, 
Who  spirits  back  into  their  bodies  drew. 
Not  long  was  I  of  flesh  denuded  so, 
When  she  made  me  to  pass  within  that 

wall 

To  draw  a  shade  from  Judas'  ring  below. 
That  is  the  lowest,  blackest  spot  of  all, 
And  farthest  from   the  Heaven   that 

round  all  flies. 

I  know  the  way,  therefore  thy  faith  re- 
call. 

That  marsh  from  which  the  putrid  smells 
arise 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


All  round  this  doleful  city  here  is  spread, 
Which  entrance,  lacking  wrath,  to  us 

denies." 
And  more  he  spoke,  but  from  my  mind  it 

fled, 

Because  my  eyes  entirely  me  drew 
Towards  the  lofty  tower  of  summit  red, 
Where  all  at  once  had  risen  up  to  view 
Three  hellish  furies  all  besmeared  with 

gore, 
Who  female  members  had  and  actions 

too. 

The  greenest  hydras  they  as  girdles  wore, 
And  tiny  snakes  with  horns  had  they 

for  hair, 
Which  matted  was  their  cruel  brows 

before. 
And  he,  that  they  were  handmaids  well 

aware 

Of  her  who  of  eternal  plaints  is  queen, 
Said:  "Look  thou  on  the  fell  Erynnis 

there! 

Megaera  is  upon  the  left  hand  seen; 
Alecto  on  the  right  wails,  of  the  rest; 
Tesiphone  is  she  who  is  between." 
They  with  their  nails  all  madly  tore  the 

breast, 
And    beat    themselves,    and    uttered 

shrieks  so  high 

That  near  the  poet  I  in  terror  pressed. 
"Bring  here  Medusa  him  to  petrify," 
They  all  cried  out,  directing  down  their 

sight; 
"Theseus'  attack  we  passed  too  lightly 

by." 
"Turn  thou  around  and  close  thy  eyelids 

tight, 
For  if  the  Gorgon  comes  and  thou  her 

see, 

There  will  be  no  returning  to  the  light." 
Thus  spoke  my  master,  and  himself  then 

he 

Turned  me  around,  nor  left  me  to  ar- 
range, 
But  with  his  hands  o'er  mine  blindfolded 

me. 
O  ye  whose  minds  corruption  does  not 

change, 
Observe  the  teaching  which  itself  doth 

hide 

Beneath  the   curtain   of   these   verses 
strange! 


And  now  there  came  across  the  turbid  tide 
A  crashing  that  aroused  a  wild  affray 
Which  caused  the  shore  to  quake  on 

either  side. 
'Twas  just  as  when  a  wind-storm  makes 

its  way, 

Impetuous  from  heats'  adversity, 
Which  strikes  the  forest,  and  without  a 

stay, 
The  branches  strips,  breaks  down,  and 

teareth  free; 

With  dust  before  it,  on  it  proudly  flies 
And  makes  the  wild  beasts  and  the 

shepherds  flee. 
"Direct  thy  sight,"  he  said,  and  loosed  my 

eyes, 
"So  that  the  ancient  foam  thy  vision 

know, 
There  yonder  where  the  acrid  vapors 

rise!" 

Just  as  the  frogs  before  their  serpent  foe 
Rush  through  the  water  in  disrupted 

shoals, 
Till  on  the  ground  each  one  is  squatting 

low, 

So  I  saw  many  thousand  ruined  souls 
Fleeing  from  one  who  at  the  passage 

there 
Was  crossing  o'er  the  Styx  with  unwet 

soles. 

Back  from  his  face  he  thrust  the  heavy  air, 
His  left  hand  pushing  forward  as  he 

went, 
And  weary  seemed  he  solely  from  this 

care. 
Well  I  perceived  that  he  from  Heaven  was 

sent, 
And  turned  to  Virgil,  who  by  signs  made 

plain 
That  I  be  still  and  stand  before  him 

bent. 

Ah,  how  intense  to  me  seemed  his  disdain ! 
He  came  unto  the  gate,  and  with  a 

wand 

He  opened  it,  for  naught  did  him  re- 
strain. 

"O  heavenly  outcasts,  O  despised  band," 
He  then  began  upon  the  awful  sill, 
"What  you  impells  to  this  defiant  stand? 
Wherefore  do  you  rebel  against  the  will 
Which   nothing   from   its   object   e'er 
abates, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


47 


And  which  so  often  has  increased  your 

ill? 
What  profits  it  to  butt  against  the  fates? 

Your  Cerberus  for  that,  you  well  have 
learned, 

The  hair  still  on  his  throat  and  chin 

awaits." 

And  then  back  by  the  filthy  path  he 
turned, 

Nor  spoke  to  us,  but  all  the  air  he  bore 

Of  one  whom  other  cares  impelled  and 

burned 

Than  those  of  them  then  standing  him 
before. 

Then  towards  the  city  we  our  steps  dis- 
posed, 

Secure  after  the  sacred  words  once  more, 
And  entered  there  with  no  one  who  op- 
posed. 

But  I  who  wished  exceedingly  to  see 

The  state  a  fortress  such  as  that  en- 
closed, 
When  I  was  in  looked  round  me  thoroughly 

And  saw  a  mighty  plain  stretch  all 
around, 

With  sorrow  filled  and  wicked  agony. 
Just  as  at  Aries  the  Rhone  is  stagnant 
found, 

And  as  at  Pola  to  Quarnaro  near, 

Where  Italy's  confines  are  washed  and 
bound, 


The  tombs  uneven  make  the  plain  appear; 

So  here  on  every  side  it  was  the  same, 

Excepting    that    the   mode   was   more 

severe : 

For  'mid  the  tombs  were  scattered  tongues 
of  flame 

By  which  they  were  with  heat  so  fully 
seared 

That  hotter  iron  doth  no  craft  e'er 

claim. 
They  all  their  covers  open  had  upreared, 

And  from  them  did  such  lamentations 
rise 

That  sad  and  wounded  they  indeed  ap- 
peared. 
And  I:  "My  Master,  what  folk  is  it  lies 

Entombed  within  these  chests,  who  in 
this  way 

Themselves  make  evident  by  mournful 

sighs?" 
And  he  to  me:  "Arch  heretics  are  they 

With  followers  of  every  sect,  and  more 

Than  thou  believest  do  these  tombs 

down  weigh. 
In  this  place  like  with  like  is  covered  o'er, 

And  more  and  less  hot  are  the  monu- 
ments." 

Then  we  our  steps  towards  the  right 
hand  bore 

Between  the  torments  and  high  battle- 
ments. 


JOHN  MILTON  (1608-1674) 

Milton,  after  Shakespeare  the  chief  glory  of  English  literature,  is  one  of  the  world's  greatest  poets. 
His  chief  work,  "Paradise  Lost,"  though  not  strictly  true  to  the  epic  type— since  it  concerns  no  national 
hero — is  the  great  English  epic  that  stands  in  our  literature  as  Homer's  "Eiad"  and  "Odyssey"  stand  in 
Greek,  and  Virgil's  "/Eneid"  in  Latin.  It  is  the  story  of  the  temptation  and  fall  of  man;  the  twelfth  and 
last  book  concludes  with  the  expulsion  of  Adam  and  Eve  from  the  Garden  of  Eden.  It  was  written 
when  the  poet  was  poor,  past  middle  life,  and  blind, in  order,  as  he  himself  tells  us,  to 

assert  Eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 


PARADISE  LOST 
BOOK  I 

ARGUMENT 

THIS  First  Book  proposes,  first  in  brief,  the  whole 
subject, — Man's  disobedience,  and  the  loss 
thereupon  of  Paradise,  wherein  he  was  placed : 
then  touches  the  prime  cause  of  his  fall, — the 
serpent,  or  rather  Satan  in  the  serpent;  who, 


revolting  from  God,  and  drawing  to  his  side 
many  legions  of  angels,  was,  by  the  command 
of  God,  driven  out  of  heaven,  with  all  his 
crew,  into  the  great  deep.  Which  action 
passed  over,  the  poem  hastens  into  the  midst 
of  things,  presenting  Satan,  with  his  angels, 
now  fallen  into  hell,  described  here,  not  in 
the  center  (for  heaven  and  earth  may  be  sup- 
posed as  yet  not  made,  certainly  not  yet  ac- 
cursed), but  in  a  place  of  utter  darkness,  fit- 
liest  called  Chaos:  here  Satan  with  his  angels, 
lying  on  the  burning  lake,  thunderstruck  and 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


astonished,  after  a  certain  space  recovers,  as 
from  confusion,  calls  up  him  who  next  in  order 
and  dignity  lay  by  him.  They  confer  of  their 
miserable  fall;  Satan  awakens  all  his  legions, 
who  lay  till  then  in  the  same  manner  con- 
founded. They  rise;  their  numbers;  array  of 
battle;  their  chief  leaders  named,  according  to 
the  idols  known  afterwards  in  Canaan  and  the 
countries  adjoining.  To  these  Satan  directs 
his  speech,  comforts  them  with  hope  yet  of  re- 
gaining heaven,  but  tells  them  lastly  of  a  new 
world  and  new  kind  of  creature  to  be  created, 
according  to  an  ancient  prophecy,  or  report,  in 
heaven — for,  that  the  angels  were  long  before 
this  visible  creation,  was  the  opinion  of  many 
ancient  fathers.  To  find  out  the  truth  of  this 
prophecy,  and  what  to  determine  thereon,  he 
refers  to  a  full  council.  What  his  associates 
thence  attempt.  Pandemonium,  the  palace 
of  Satan,  rises,  suddenly  built  out  of  the  deep: 
the  infernal  peers  there  sit  in  council. 

OF  MAN'S  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our 

woe, 

With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat, 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret 

top 

Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  did'st  inspire 
That  shepherd,  who  first  taught  the  chosen 

seed, 
In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and 

earth 

Rose  out  of  chaos:  or,  if  Sion  hill 
Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook  that 

flowed 

Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song, 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rime. 
And  chiefly  thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and 

pure, 
Instruct  me,  for  thou  know'st;  thou  from 

the  first 

Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  out- 
spread, 
Dove-like,   sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast 

abyss, 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant:  what  in  me  is 

dark, 

Illumine;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 


I  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 
Say  first — for  heaven  hides  nothing  from 

thy  view, 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  hell — say  first,  what 

cause 
Moved  our  grand  Parents,  in  that  happy 

state, 

Favored  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For   one   restraint,   lords   of   the   world 

besides. 

Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt? 
The  infernal  Serpent;  he  it  was,  whose 

guile,t 

Stirred  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceived 
The  mother  of  mankind;  what  time  his 

pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  heaven,  with  all  his 

host 

Of  rebel  angels;  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers, 
He  trusted  to  have  equaled  the  Most 

High, 

If  he  opposed;  and,  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God, 
Raised  impious  war  in  heaven,  and  battle 

proud, 
With  vain  attempt.    Him  the  Almighty 

Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal 

sky, 

With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition;  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 
Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day 

and  night 

To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 
Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf, 
Confounded,  though  immortal.     But  his 

doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath;  for  now  the 

thought 

Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pahi 
Torments  him;  round  he  throws  his  baleful 

eyes, 

That  witnessed  huge  affliction  and  dismay, 
Mixed  with  obdurate  pride,  and  steadfast 

hate. 

At  once,  as  far  as  angels'  ken,  he  views 
The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


A  dungeon  horrible,  on  all  sides  round, 
As  one  great  furnace,  flamed;  yet  from 

those  flames 

No  light ;  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 
Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where 

peace 
And   rest   can   never   dwell;  hope  never 

comes 

That  comes  to  all ;  but  torture  without  end 
Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 
With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed. 
Such  place  eternal  justice  had  prepared 
For  those  rebellious;  here  their  prison  or- 
dained 

In  utter  darkness,  and  their  portion  set 
As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of 

heaven, 
As  from  the  center  thrice  to  the  utmost 

pole. 
O,  how  unlike  the  place  from  whence  they 

feU! 
There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o'er- 

whelmed 
With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous 

fire, 
He  soon  discerns;  and  weltering  by  his 

side 
C/ne  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in 

crime, 

Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  named 
Beelzebub.    To  whom  the  arch-enemy. 
And  thence  in  heaven  called  Satan,  with 

bold  words 

Breaking  the  horrid  silence,  thus  began: — 
"If  thou  beest  he— but  O,  how  fall'n! 

how  changed 
From  him  who,  in  the  happy  realms  of 

light, 
Clothed    with    transcendent    brightness, 

didst  outshine 
Myriads,   though  bright!    If  he,   whom 

mutual  league, 

United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And  hazard  in  the  glorious  enterprise, 
Joined  with  me  once,  now  misery  hath 

joined 

In  equal  ruin;  into  what  pit  thou  seest 
From  what  height  fall'n,  so  much  the 

stronger  proved 
He  with  his  thunder:  and  till  then  who 

knew 


The  force  of  those  dire  arms?     Yet  not  for 

those, 

Nor  what  the  potent  victor  in  his  rage 
Can  else  inflict,  do  I  repent  or  change, 
Though  changed  hi  outward  luster,  that 

fixed  mind, 
And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injured 

merit, 
That  with  the  Mightiest  raised  me  to 

contend, 

And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along 
Innumerable  force  of  spirits  armed, 
That  durst  dislike  his  reign,  and,  me  pre- 
ferring 

His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  op- 
posed 

In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  heaven, 
And  shook  his  throne.    What  though  the 

field  be  lost? 

All  is  not  lost;  the  unconquerable  will, 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome; 
That  glory  never  shah1  his  wrath  or  might 
Extort  from  me.    To  bow  and  sue  for  grace 
With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power 
Who  from  the  terror  of  this  arm  so  late 
Doubted  his  empire — that  were  low  in- 
deed, 

That  were  an  ignominy,  and  shame  be- 
neath 
This  downfall;  since,  by  fate,  the  strength 

of  gods, 

And  this  empyreal  substance,  cannot  fail: 
Since,  through  experience  of  this  great 

event, 

In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  ad- 
vanced, 

We  may  with  more  successful  hope  resolve 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war, 
Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  and,  in  the  excess  of 

joy 

Sole  reigning, holds  the  tyrannyof  heaven." 
So  spake  the  apostate  angel,  though  in 

pain, 

Vaunting  aloud,  but  racked  with  deep  de- 
spair 

And  him  thus  answered  soon  his  bold  com- 
peer:— 

"O  prince,  O  chief  of  many-throned 
jaowers,. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


That  led  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war 
Under  thy  conduct,  and  in  dreadful  deeds 
Fearless,  endangered  heaven's  perpetual 

King, 

And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy, 
Whether  upheld  by  strength,  or  chance,  or 

fate; 

Too  well  I  see,  and  rue  the  dire  event, 
That  with  sad  overthrow,  and  foul  defeat, 
Hath  lost  us  heaven,  and  all  this  mighty 

host 

In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low, 
As  far  as  gods  and  heavenly  essences 
Can  perish :  for  the  mind  and  spirit  remain 
Invincible,  and  vigor  soon  returns, 
Though  all  our  glory  extinct,  and  happy 

state 

Here  swallowed  up  in  endless  misery. 
But  what  if  he  our  Conqueror  (whom  I 

now 

Of  force  believe  Almighty,  since  no  less 
Than  such  could  have  o'erpowered  such 

force  as  ours) 
Have  left  us  this  our  spirit  and  strength 

entire. 

Strongly  to  suffer  and  support  our  pains, 
That  we  may  so  suffice  his  vengeful  ire, 
Or  do  him  mightier  service  as  his  thralls 
By  right  of  war,  whate'er  his  business  be, 
Here  in  the  heart  of  hell  to  work  in  fire, 
Or  do  his  errands,  in  the  gloomy  deep? 
What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we 

feel 

Strength  undiminished,  or  eternal  being 
To  undergo  eternal  punishment?" 

Whereto  with  speedy  words  the  arch- 
fiend replied: — 

"  Fallen  cherub,  to  be  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  or  suffering;  but  of  this  be  sure, 
To  do  aught  good  never  will  be  our  task, 
But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight, 
As  being  the  contrary  to  his  high  will 
Whom  we  resist.     If  then  his  providence 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good, 
Our  labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end, 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil, 
Which  of  ttimes  may  succeed,  so  as  perhaps 
Shall  grieve  him,  if  I  fail  not,  and  disturb 
His  inmost  counsels  from  their  destined 

aim. 

But  see,  the  angry  Victor  hath  recalled 
His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit 


Back  to  the  gates  of  heaven;  the  sulphur- 
ous hail, 

Shot  after  us  in  storm,  o'erblown,  hath  laid 

The  fiery  surge,  that  from  the  precipice 

Of  heaven  received  us  falling;  and  the 
thunder, 

Winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous 
rage, 

Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases 
now 

To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless 
deep. 

Let  us  not  slip  the  occasion,  whether  scorn 

Or  satiate  fury  yield  it  from  our  foe. 

Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and 
wild, 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light, 

Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid 
flames 

Casts  pale  and  dreadful?    Thither  let  us 
tend 

From  off  the  tossing  of  these  fiery  waves; 

There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbor  there; 

And,  re-assembling  our  afflicted  powers, 

Consult  how  we  may  henceforth  most  of- 
fend 

Our  enemy;  our  own  loss  how  repair; 

How  overcome  this  dire  calamity; 

What  reinforcement  we  may  gain  from 
hope; 

If  not,  what  resolution  from  despair." 
Thus  Satan,  talking  to  his  nearest  mate, 

With  head  uplif  t  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 

That  sparkling  blazed;  his  other  parts  be- 
sides 

Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and 
large, 

Lay  floating  many  a  rood;  in  bulk  as  huge 

As  whom  the  fables  name  of  monstrous 
size, 

Titanian,  or  Earth-born,  that  warred  on 
Jove; 

Briareos  or  Typhon,  whom  the  den 

By  ancient  Tarsus  held;  or  that  sea-beast 

Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works 

Created    hugest    that    swim    the    ocean 
stream. 

Him,  haply,  slumbering  on  the  Norway 
foam, 

The  pilot  of  some  small  night-foundered 
skiff, 

Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind 
Moors  by  his  side  under  die  lee,  while 

night 

Invests  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays: 
So  stretched  out  huge  in  length  the  arch- 
fiend lay 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake:  nor  ever 

thence 
Had  risen,  or  heaved  his  head;  but  that  the 

will 

And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  hun  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs; 
/That  with  reiterated  crimes  he  might 
Heap   on  himself   damnation,   while  he 

sought 

Evil  to  others;  and,  enraged,  might  see 
How  all  his  malice  served  but  to  bring 

forth 

Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy,  shown 
On  man  by  him  seduced;  but  on  himself 
Treble  confusion,  wrath,  and  vengeance 

poured. 
Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the 

pool 
His  mighty  stature;  on  each  hand  the 

flames, 
Driven   backward,   slope   their   pointing 

spires,  and  rolled 

In  billows,  leave  i'  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his 

flight 

Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air, 
That  felt  unusual  weight;  till  on  dry  land 
He  lights,  if  it  were  land  that  ever  burned 
With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid  fire; 
And  such  appeared  in  hue,  as  when  the 

force 

Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 
Torn  from  Pelorus,  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  Etna,  whose  combustible 
And  fuelled  entrails  thence  conceiving  fire, 
Sublimed  with  mineral  fury,  aid  the  winds, 
And  leave  a  singed  bottom,  all  involved 
Wil*  stench  and  smoke:  such  resting  found 

the  sole 
Ol  unblest  feet.    Him  followed  his  next 

mate: 
Both  glorying  to  have  'scaped  the  Stygian 

flood, 
As  gods,   and  by   their  own   recovered 

strength, 
Not  by  the  sufferance  of  supernal  power. 


"Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the 

clime," 

Said  then  the  lost  archangel,  "  this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  heaven;  this 

mournful  gloom 

For  that  celestial  light?  Be  it  so,  since  he, 
Who  now  is  Sovereign,  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shall  be  right:  farthest  from  him  is 

best, 
Whom  reason  hath  equaled,  force  hath 

made  supreme 

Above  his  equals.  Farewell,  happy  fields, 
Where  joy  for  ever  dwells!  Hail,  horrors! 

hail 

Infernal  world!  and  thou  profoundest  hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor — one  who 

brings 

A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time: 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of 

heaven. 

What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same, 
And  what  I  should  be;  all  but  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater?  Here 

at  least 
We  shall  be  free:  the  Almighty  hath  not 

built 

Here  for  his  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence: 
Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and,  in  my 

choice, 

To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell; 
Better  to  reign  in  hell,  than  serve  in 

heaven. 
But  wherefore  let  we  then  our  faithful 

friends, 

The  associates  and  co-partners  of  our  loss, 
Lie  thus  astonished  on  the  oblivious  pool, 
And  call  them  not  to  share  with  us  their 

part 

In  this  unhappy  mansion;  or  once  more 
With  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Regained  in  heaven,  or  what  more  lost  in 

hell?" 

So  Satan  spake,  and  him  Beelzebub 
Thus  answered:    "Leader  of  those  armies 

bright, 
Which,  but  the  Omnipotent,  none  could 

have  foiled, 
If  once  they  hear  that  voice,  their  liveliest 

pledge 

Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers,  heard  so  oft 
In  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Of  battle  when  it  raged,  in  all  assaults 
Their  surest  signal,  they  will  soon  resume 
New  courage  and  revive;  though  now  they 

lie 
Groveling  and  prostrate  on  yon  lake  of 

fire, 

As  we  erewhile,  astounded  and  amazed; 
No    wonder,    fall'n    such    a    pernicious 

height." 
He  scarce  had  ceased,  when  the  superior 

fiend 

Was  moving  toward  the  shore:  his  ponder- 
ous shield 

Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round, 
Behind  him  cast;  the  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon, 

whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist 

views 

At  evening,  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands, 
Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  admiral,  ivere  but  a  wand, 
He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps 
Over  the  burning  marl,  not  like  those  steps 
On  heaven's  azure,  and  the  torrid  clime 
Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with 

fire: 

Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach 
Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called 
His  legions,   angel  forms,   who  lay  en- 
tranced, 
Thick  as  autumnal  leaves,  that  strew  the 

brooks 
In    Vallombrosa,    where    the    Etrurian 

shades, 
High  over-arched,  embower;  or  scattered 

sedge 

Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  armed 
Hath  vexed  the  Red  Sea  coast,  whose 

waves  o'erthrew 

Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry, 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcasses 
And  broken  chariot- wheels;  so  thick  be- 
strewn, 
Abject  and  lost  lay  these,  covering  the 

flood, 
Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 


He  called  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  hell  resounded.  "Princes,  potentates, 
Warriors,  the  flower  of  heaven,  once  yours, 

now  lost, 

If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 
Eternal  spirits;  or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 
Your  wearied  virtue,   for  the  ease  you 

find 

To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  heaven? 
Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 
To  adore  the  Conqueror?  who  now  beholds 
Cherub  and  seraph  rolling  in  the  flood 
With  scattered  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon 
His  swift  pursuers  from  heaven-gates  dis- 
cern 
The  advantage,  and  descending,  tread  UL 

down 

Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunder- 
bolts 

Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf? 
Awake,  arise,  or  be  for  ever  fall'n!" 
They  heard,  and  were  abashed,  and  up 

they  sprung 
Upon  the  wing;  as  when  men,  wont  to 

watch 
On  duty,  sleeping  found  by  whom  they 

dread, 
Rouse   and   bestir    themselves   ere    well 

awake. 

Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 
In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not 

feel; 
Yet  to  their  general's  voice  they  soon 

obeyed, 

Innumerable.    As  when  the  potent  rod 
Of  Amram's  son,  in  Egypt's  evil  day, 
Waved  round  the  coast,  up  called  a  pitchy 

cloud 

Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind, 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh 

hung 
Like  night,  and  darkened  all  the  land  of 

Nile: 

So  numberless  were  those  bad  angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  hell, 
'Twixt   upper,  nether,  and  surrounding 

fires; 

Till,  at  a  signal  given,  the  uplifted  spear 
Of  their  great  sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their  course,  in  even  balance  down  they 

light 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


On  the  firm  brimstone,  and  fill  all  the 

plain: 

A  multitude  like  which  the  populous  north 
Poured  never  from  her  frozen  loins,  to  pass 
Rhine  or  the  Danube,  when  her  barbarous 

sons 

Came  like  a  deluge  on  the  south  and  spread 
Beneath  Gibraltar  to  the  Libyan  sands. 
Forthwith  from  every  squadron  and  each 

band 
The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where 

stood 
Their  great  commander;  godlike  shapes 

and  forms 

Excelling  human;  princely  dignities; 
And  powers  that  erst  in  heaven  sat  on 

thrones, 
Though  of  their  names  in  heavenly  records 

now 

Be  no  memorial;  blotted  out  and  rased 
By  their  rebellion  from  the  books  of  life. 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve 
Got  them  new  names;  till,  wandering  o'er 

the  earth, 
Through  God's  high  sufferance,  for  the 

trial  of  man, 

By  falsities  and  lies  the  greater  part 
Of  mankind  they  corrupted  to  forsake 
God  their  Creator,  and  the  invisible 
Glory  of  him  that  made  them,  to  trans- 
form 

Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorned 
With  gay  religions,  full  of  pomp  and  gold, 
And  devils  to  adore  for  deities: 
Then  were  they  known  to  men  by  various 

names, 
And  various  idols  through  the  heathen 

world. 
Say,  Muse,  their  names  then  known, 

who  first,  who  last, 
Roused  from  the  slumber  on  that  fiery 

couch, 
At  their  great  emperor's  call,  as  next  in 

worth, 
Came  singly  where  he  stood  on  the  bare 

strand, 
While  the  promiscuous  crowd  stood  yet 

aloof. 
The  chief  were  those  who  from  the  pit  of 

hell, 
Roaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  earth,  durst 

fix 


Their  seats  long  after  next  the  seat  of  God, 
Then-  altars  by  his  altar,  gods  adored 
Among  the  nations  round,  and  durst  abide 
Jehovah  thundering  out  of  Sion,  throned 
Between  the  cherubim;  yea,  often  placed 
Within  his  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines, 
Abominations;  and  with  cursed  things 
His  holy  rites  and  solemn  feasts  profaned, 
And  with  their  darkness  durst  affront  his 

light. 
First,  Moloch,  horrid  king,  besmeared  with 

blood 

Of  human  sacrifice,  and  parents'  tears; 
Though,  for  the  noise  of  drums  and  tim- 
brels loud, 
Their  children's  cries  unheard,  that  passed 

through  fire 

To  his  grim  idol.    Hun  the  Ammonite 
Worshipped  in  Rabba  and  her  watery 

plain, 

In  Argob  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 
Of  utmost  Arnon.    Nor  content  with  such 
Audacious  neighborhood,  the  wisest  heart 
Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build 
His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of 

God, 
On  that  opprobrious  hill;  and  made  his 

grove 
The  pleasant  valley  of  Hinnom,  Tophet 

thence 

And  black  Gehenna  called,  the  type  of  hell. 
Next,    Chemos,    the    obscene    dread    of 

Moab's  sons, 

From  Aroer  to  Nebo,  and  the  wild 
Of  southmost  Abarim;  in  Hesebon 
And  Horonaim,  Seon's  realm,  beyond 
The  flowery  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines, 
And  Eleale  to  the  asphaltic  pool; 
Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  enticed 
Israel  in  Sittim,  on  their  march  from  Nile, 
To  do  him  wanton  rites,  which  cost  them 

woe. 

Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarged 
Even  to  that  hill  of  scandal,  by  the  grove 
Of  Moloch  homicide:  lust  hard  by  hate; 
Till  good  Josiah  drove  them  thence  to 

hell. 

With  these  came  they  who,  from  the  bor- 
dering flood 

Of  old  Euphrates  to  the  brook  that  parts 
Egypt  from  Syrian  ground,  had  general 

names 


54 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Of  Baalim  and  Ashtaroth;  those  male, 
These  feminine;  for  spirits,   when   they 

please, 

Can  either  sex  assume,  or  both;  so  soft 
And  uncompounded  is  their  essence  pure; 
Not  tied  or  manacled  with  joint  or  limb, 
Nor  founded  on  the  brittle  strength  of 

bones, 
Like  cumbrous  flesh;  but,  in  what  shape 

they  choose, 

Dilated  or  condensed,  bright  or  obscure, 
Can  execute  their  aery  purposes, 
And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfil. 
For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 
Their  living  Strength,  and  unfrequented 

left 

His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down 
To  bestial  gods;  for  which  their  heads  as 

low 
Bowed  down  in  battle,  sunk  before  the 

spear 

Of  despicable  foes.    With  these  in  troop 
Came   Astoreth,    whom    the    Phenicians 

called 
Astarte,  queen  of  heaven,  with  crescent 

horns; 
To  whose  bright  image  nightly  by  the 

moon 

Sidonian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs; 
In  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood 
Her  temple  on  the  offensive  mountain, 

built 
By    that    uxorious    king,    whose    heart, 

though  large, 

Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,  fell 
To  idols  foul.    Thammuz  came  next  be- 
hind, 

Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day; 
While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded;  the  love- 
tale 

Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat; 
Whose   wanton   passions   in    the   sacred 

porch 

Ezekiel  saw,  when,  by  the  vision  led, 
His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah.    Next  came  one 
Who  mourned  in  earnest,  when  the  captive 

ark 


Maimed  his  brute  image,  head  and  hands 

lopped  off 

In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grunsel  edge, 
Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  wo* 

shippers; 

Dagon  his  name,  sea-monster,  upward  man 
And  downward  fish;  yet  had  his  temple 

high 
Reared  in  Azotus,  dreaded  through  the 

coast 

Of  Palestine,  in  Gath  and  Ascalon, 
And  Accaron  and  Gazar's  frontier  bounds. 
Him  followed  Rimmon,  whose  delightful 

seat 

Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 
Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams. 
He  also  'gainst  the  house  of  God  was  bold  * 
A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king; 
Ahaz  his  sottish  conqueror,  whom  he  drew 
God's  altar  to  disparage  and  displace 
For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  burr 
His  odious  offerings,  and  adore  the  gods 
Whom  he  had  vanquished.    After  these 

appeared 

A  crew  who,  under  names  of  old  renown, 
Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train, 
With    monstrous    shapes    and    sorceries 

abused 

Fanatic  Egypt  and  her  priests,  to  seek 
Their  wandering  gods  disguised  in  brutish 

forms 
Rather    than    human.    Nor    did    Israel 

'scape 
The  infection,  when  their  borrowed  gold 

composed 

The  caff  in  Oreb;  and  the  rebel  king 
Doubled  that  sin  in  Bethel  and  in  Dan, 
Likening  his  Maker  to  the  grazed  ox — 
Jehovah,  who  in  one  night,  when  he  passed 
From  Egypt  marching,  equaled  with  one 

stroke 
Both  her  first-born  and  all  her  bleating 

gods. 
Belial  came  last,  than  whom  a  spirit  more 

lewd 

Fell  not  from  heaven,  or  more  gross  to  love 
Vice  for  itself;  to  him  no  temple  stood, 
Or  altar  smoked;  yet  who  more  oft  than  he 
In  temples  and  at  altars,  when  the  priest 
Turns  atheist,  as  did  Eli's  sons,  who  filled 
With  lust  and  violence  the  house  of  God? 
In  courts  and  palaces  he  also  reigns, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


5S 


And  in  luxurious  cities,  where  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers, 
And  injury  and  outrage:  and  when  night 
Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the 

sons 

Of  Belial,  flown  with  insolence  and  wine. 
Witness  the  streets  of  Sodom,  and  that 

night 

In  Gibeah,  when  the  hospitable  door 
Exposed  a  matron,  to  avoid  worse  rape. 
These  were  the  prime  in  order  and  in 

might: 

The  rest  were  long  to  tell,  though  far  re- 
nowned, 

The  Ionian  gods — of  Ja van's  issue  held 
Gods,  yet  confessed  later  than  heaven  and 

earth, 
Their  boasted  parents:  Titan,  heaven's 

first-born 
With  his  enormous  brood,  and  birthright 

seized 

By  younger  Saturn;  he  from  mightier  Jove, 
His  own  and  Rhea's  son,  like  measure 

found; 
So  Jove  usurping  reigned:  these  first  in 

Crete 

And  Ida  known,  thence  on  the  snowy  top 
Of  cold  Olympus  ruled  the  middle  air, 
Their  highest  heaven;  or  on  the  Delphian 

cliff, 

Or  in  Dodona,  and  through  all  the  bounds 
Of  Doric  land :  or  who  with  Saturn  old 
Fled  over  Adria  to  the  Hesperian  fields, 
And  o'er  the  Celtic  roamed  the  utmost 

isles. 
All  these  and  more  came  flocking,  but 

with  looks 

Downcast  and  damp;  yet  such  wherein  ap- 
peared 
Obscure  some  glimpse  of  joy,  to  have  found 

their  chief 
Not  in  despair,  to  have  found  themselves 

not  lost 
In  loss  itself;  which  on  his  countenance 

cast 

Like  doubtful  hue;  but  he, his  wonted  pride 
Soon  recollecting,  with  high  words,  that 

bore 
Semblance  of  worth,  not  substance,  gently 

raised 
Their  fainting  courage,  and  dispelled  their 

fears. 


Then  straight  commands  that  at  the  war- 

like  sound 

Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions  be  upreared 
His  mighty  standard;  that  proud  honor 

claimed 

Azazel  as  his  right,  a  cherub  tall; 
Who  forthwith  from  the  glittering  staff  un- 
furled 

The  imperial  ensign;  which,  full  high  ad- 
vanced, 

Shone  like  a  meteor,  streaming  to  the  wind, 
With  gems  and  golden  luster  rich  em- 
blazed, 

Seraphic  arms  and  trophies,  all  the  while 
Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds: 
At  which  the  universal  host  up-sent 
A  shout,  that  tore  hell's  concave,  and  be- 
yond 

Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  hi  a  moment  through  the  gloom  were 

seen 

Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air, 
With  orient  colors  waving;  with  them  rose 
A  forest  huge  of  spears;  and  thronging 

helms 
Appeared,  and  serried  shields  in   thick 

array 

Of  depth  immeasurable;  anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders;  such  as  raised 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle,  and  instead  of  rage, 
Deliberate  valor  breathed,  firm  and  un- 
moved 

With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  re- 
treat; 

Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  'suage 
With  solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts, 

and  chase 
Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow, 

and  pain 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.    Tkus 

they, 

Breathing  united  force,  with  fixed  thought, 
Moved  on  in  silence,  to  soft  pipes,  that 

charmed 
Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil:  and 

now 
Advanced  in  view  they  stand;  a  horrid 

front 

Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in 
guise 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Of  warriors  old  with  ordered  spear  and 

shield, 
Awaiting  what   command   their  mighty 

chief 

Had  to  impose:  he  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienced  eye,  and  soon  tra- 
verse 

The  whole  battalion  views,  their  order  due, 
Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods; 
Their  number  last  he  sums.    And  now  his 

heart 
Distends  with  pride,  and  hardening  in  his 

strength 

Glories:  for  never  since  created  man 
Met  such  embodied  force  as,  named  with 

these, 

Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry 
Warred  on  by  cranes:  though  all  the  giant 

brood 

Of  Phlegra  with  the  heroic  race  were  joined 
That  fpught  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each 

side 

Mixed  with  auxiliar  gods;  and  what  re- 
sounds 

In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son 
Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights; 
And  all  who  since,  baptized  or  infidel, 
Jousted  in  Aspramont,  or  Montalban, 
Damascus,  or  Morocco,  or  Trebizond, 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore, 
When  Charlemagne  with  all  his  peerage 

fell 

By  Fontarabbia.  Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed 
Their  dread  commander;  he,  above  the 

rest 

In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower;  his  form  had  yet  not 

lost 

All  its  original  brightness;  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured:  as  when  the  sun,  new 

risen, 

Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air 
Shorn  of  his  beams,  or  from  behind  the 

moon, 

In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of 

change 
Perplexes  monarchs.    Darkened  so,  yet 

shone 
Above  them  all  the  archangel;  but  his  face 


Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  entrenched;  and 

care 

Sat  on  his  faded  cheek;  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate 

pride 

Waiting  revenge;  cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion,  to  behold 
The  fellows  of  his  crime,  the  followers 

rather 

(Far  other  once  beheld  in  bliss),   con- 
demned 

For  ever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain; 
Millions  of  spirits  for  his  fault  amerced 
Of  heaven,  and  from  eternal  splendors 

flung 

For  his  revolt;  yet  faithful  how  they  stood, 
Their  glory  withered;  as  when  heaven's 

fire 
Hath  scathed  the  forest  oaks,  or  mountain 

pines, 
With   singed   top   their   stately   growth, 

though  bare, 

Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.    He  now  pre- 
pared 
To  speak;  whereat  their  doubled  ranks  they 

bend 
From  wing  to  whig,  and  half  enclose  him 

round 
With  all  his  peers:  attention  held  them 

mute. 
Thrice  he  essayed,  and  thrice,  in  spite  ot 

scorn, 
Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth;  at 

last 
Words,  interwove  with  sighs,  found  out 

their  way. 
"O  myriads  of   immortal   spirits!    0 

powers 
Matchless,  but  with  the  Almighty;  and 

that  strife 
Was  not  inglorious,  though  the  event  was 

dire, 

As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change, 
Hateful  to  utter!  but  what  power  of  mind, 
Foreseeing  or  presaging,  from  the  depth 
Of  knowledge,  past  or  present,  could  have 

feared 

How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 
As  stood  like  these,  could  ever  know  re- 
pulse? 

For  who  can  yet  believe,  though  after  loss, 
That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


57 


Hath  emptied  heaven,  shall  fail  to  reascend 
Self -raised,  and  repossess  their  native  seat? 
For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  heaven, 
If  counsels  different,  or  dangers  shunned 
By  me,  have  lost  our  hopes.     But  he  who 

reigns 

Monarch  in  heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 
Sat  on  this  throne  upheld  by  old  repute, 
Consent  or  custom;  and  his  regal  state 
Put  forth  at  full,  but  still  his  strength  con- 
cealed, 
Which  tempted  our  attempt,  and  wrought 

our  fall. 
Henceforth  his  might  we  know,  and  know 

our  own; 

So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New  war,  provoked;  our  better  part  re- 
mains, 

To  work  in  close  design,  by  fraud  or  guile, 
What  force  effected  not;  that  he  no  less 
At  length  from  us  may  find,  who  over- 
comes 

By  force,  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space  may  produce  new  worlds;  whereof 

so  rife 
There  went  a  fame  in  heaven  that  he  ere 

long 

Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant 
A  generation,  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favor  equal  to  the  sons  of  heaven: 
Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps 
Our  first  eruption;  thither,  or  elsewhere; 
For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 
Celestial  spirits  in  bondage,  nor  the  abyss 
Long  under  darkness  cover.    But  these 

thoughts 

Full  counsel  must  mature;  peace  is  de- 
spaired ; 
For  who   can   think   submission?    War, 

then,  war, 

Open  or  understood,  must  be  resolved." 
He  spake;  and,  to  confirm  his  words, 

outflew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the 

thighs 

Of  mighty  cherubim;  the  sudden  blaze 
Far   round   illumined   hell;    highly   they 

raged 
Against    the    Highest,    and    fierce    with 

grasped  arms 

Clashed  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din 
of  war, 


Hurling    defiance    toward   the   vault   of 

heaven. 
There  stood  a  hill  not  far,  whose  grisly 

top 

Belched  fire  and  rolling  smoke;  the  rest  en- 
tire 

Shone  with  a  glossy  scurf,  undoubted  sign 
That  in  his  womb  was  hid  metallic  ore, 
The  work  of  sulphur.    Thither,  winged 

with  speed, 
A  numerous  brigade  hastened:  as  when 

bands 
Of    pioneers,    with    spade    and    pickaxe 

armed, 

Forerun  the  royal  camp,  to  trench  a  field, 
Or  cast  a  rampart.  Mammon  led  them  on : 
Mammon,  the  least  erected  spirit  that  fell 
From  heaven;  for  even  in  heaven  his  looks 

and  thoughts 
Were  always  downward  bent,  admiring 

more 
The  riches  of  heaven's  pavement,  trodden 

gold, 

Than  aught,  divine  or  holy,  else  enjoyed 
In  vision  beatific;  by  him  first 
Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught, 
Ransacked  the  center,  and  with  impious 

hands 

Rifled  the  bowels  of  their  mother  earth 
For  treasures,  better  hid.    Soon  had  his 

crew 

Opened  into  the  hill  a  spacious  wound, 
And  digged  out  ribs  of  gold.    Let  none  ad- 
mire 
That  riches  grow  in  hell;  that  soil  may 

best 
Deserve  the  precious  bane.    And  here  let 

those 

Who  boast  in  mortal  things,  and  wonder- 
ing tell 
Of  Babel,  and  the  works  of  Memphian 

kings, 
Learn  how  their  greatest  monuments  of 

fame, 

And  strength  and  art,  are  easily  outdone 
By  spirits  reprobate,  and  in  an  hour 
What  in  an  age  they  with  incessant  toil 
And  hands  innumerable  scarce  perform. 
Nigh  on  the  plain,  in  many  cells  prepared, 
That  underneath  had  veins  of  liquid  fire 
Sluiced  from  the  lake,  a  second  multitude 
With  wondrous  art  founded  the  massy  ore. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Severing  each  kind,  and  scummed  the  bul- 
lion dross; 
A  third  as  soon  had  formed  within  the 

ground 

A  various  mold,  and  from  the  boiling  cells, 
By  strange  conveyance,  filled  each  hollow 

nook, 

As  hi  an  organ,  from  one  blast  of  wind, 
To  many  a  row  of  pipes  the  sound-board 

breathes. 

Anon,  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge 
Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet, 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave;  nor  did  there  want 
Cornice  or  frieze,  with  bossy  sculptures 

graven: 

The  roof  was  fretted  gold.    Not  Babylon, 
Nor  great  Alcairo,  such  magnificence 
Equaled  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 
'Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat 
Their  kings,  when  Egypt  with  Assyria 

strove 

In  wealth  and  luxury.  The  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixed  her  stately  height:  and  straight 

the  doors, 

Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 
Within,  her  ample  spaces,  o'er  the  smooth 
And  level  pavement;  from  the  arched 

roof, 

Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 
With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 
As  from  a  sky.    The  hasty  multitude 
Admiring  entered;  and  the  work  some 

praise, 
And  some  the  architect:  his  hand  was 

known 
In  heaven  by  many  a  towered  structure 

high 

Where  sceptered  angels  held  their  resi- 
dence, 
And  sat  as  princes;  whom  the  supreme 

King 

Exalted  to  such  power,  and  gave  to  rule, 
Each  in  his  hierarchy,  the  orders  bright. 
Nor  was  his  name  unheard  or  unadored 
In  ancient  Greece;  and  in  Ausonian  land 
Men  called  him  Mulciber;  and  how  he  fell 
From   heaven   they   fabled,    thrown   by 

angry  Jove 


Sheer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements:  from 

morn 

To  noon  he  fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day;  and  with  the  setting  sun 
Dropped  from  the  zenith  like  a  falling  star, 
On  Lemnos,  th'  ^Egean  isle:  thus  they  re- 
late, 

Erring;  for  he  with  this  rebellious  rout 
Fell  long  before;  nor  aught  availed  hinv 

now 
To  have  built  in  heaven  high  towers;  nor 

did  he  'scape 

By  all  his  engines,  but  was  headlong  sent 
With  his  industrious  crew  to  build  in  hell. 
Meanwhile,  the  winged  heralds,  by  com- 
mand 

Of  sovereign  power,  with  awful  ceremony 
And  trumpet's  sound,  throughout  the  host 

proclaim 

A  solemn  council,  forthwith  to  be  held 
At  Pandemonium,  the  high  capital 
Of  Satan  and  his  peers:  their  summons 

called 

From  every  band  and  squared  regiment 
By  place  or  choice  the  worthiest;  they 

anon, 

With  hundreds  and  with  thousands,  troop- 
ing came, 
Attended;  all  access  was  thronged;  the 

gates 
And  porches  wide,  but  chief  the  spacious 

hall 

(Though  like  a  covered  field,  where  cham- 
pions bold 
Wont  ride  in  armed,  and  at  the  soldan's 

chair 

Defied  the  best  of  paynim  chivalry 
To  mortal  combat,  or  career  with  lance), 
Thick  swarmed,  both  on  the  ground  and  in 

the  air, 
Brushed  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings. 

As  bees 
In  spring-time,  when  the  sun  with  Taurus 

rides, 
Pour  forth  their  populous  youth  about  the 

hive 
In  clusters;  they  among  fresh  dews  and 

flowers 

Fly  to  and  fro,  or  on  the  smoothed  plank. 
The  suburb  of  their  straw-built  citadel, 
New  rubbed  with  balm,  expatiate,  and 
confer 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


59 


Their  state  affairs;  so  thick  the  aery  crowd 
Swarmed  and  were  straitened;  till,  the  sig- 
nal given, 
Behold  a  wonder!    They,  but  now  who 

seemed 

In  bigness  to  surpass  earth's  giant  sons, 
Now  less  than  smallest  dwarfs,  in  narrow 

room 
Throng  numberless,   like   that  Pygmean 

race 

Beyond  the  Indian  mount,  or  faery  elves, 
Whose  midnight  revels,  by  a  forest  side 
Or  fountain,  some  belated  peasant  sees, 
Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  over  head  the 

moon 

Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  earth 
Wheels  her  pale  course;  they,  on  their 

mirth  and  dance 

Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear; 
At  once  with  joy  and  fear  his  heart  re- 
bounds. 

Thus  incorporeal  spirits  to  smallest  forms 
Reduced  their  shapes  immense,  and  were 

at  large, 
Though  without  number  still,  amidst  the 

hall 

Of  that  infernal  court.     But  far  within, 
And  in  their  own  dimensions,  like  them- 
selves, 

The  great  seraphic  lords  and  cherubim 
In  close  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat; 
A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats 
Frequent  and  full.  After  short  silence 

then, 

And  summons  read,  the  great  consult  be- 
gan. 

BOOK  II 

ARGUMENT 

THE  consultation  begun,  Satan  debates  whether 
another  battle  be  to  be  hazarded  for  the  re- 
covery of  Heaven:  some  advise  it,  others 
dissuade.  A  third  proposal  is  preferred,  men- 
tioned before  by  Satan — to  search  the  truth 
of  that  prophecy  or  tradition  in  Heaven  con- 
cerning another  world,  and  another  kind  of 
creature,  equal,  or  not  much  inferior,  to  them- 
selves, about  this  time  to  be  created.  Their 
doubt  who  shall  be  sent  on  this  difficult  search; 
Satan,  their  chief,  undertakes  alone  the  voy- 
age; is  honored  and  applauded.  The  council 
thus  ended,  the  rest  betake  them  several  ways 
and  to  several  employments,  as  their  inclina- 


tions lead  them,  to  entertain  the  time  till 
Satan  return.  He  passes  on  his  journey  to 
Hell-gates;  finds  them  shut,  and  who  sat  there 
to  guard  them;  by  whom  at  length  they  are 
opened,  [and  discover  to  him  the  great  gulf 
between  Hell  and  Heaven.  With  what  diffi- 
culty he  passes  through,  directed  by  Chaos, 
the  Power  of  that  place,  to  the  sight  of  this 
new  World  which  he  sought. 


HIGH  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 
Or  where  the  gorgeous  East,  with  richest 

hand, 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and 

gold, 

Satan  exalted  sat,  by  merit  raised 
To  that  bad  eminence;  and,  from  despair 
Thus  high  uplifted  beyond  hope,  aspires 
Beyond  thus  high,  insatiate  to  pursue 
Vain  war  with  Heaven;  and,  by  success  un- 
taught, 

His  proud  imaginations  thus  displayed: — 
"Powers    and    dominions,    deities    of 

heaven; 

For  since  no  deep  within  her  gulf  can  hold 
Immortal  vigor,  though  oppressed  and 

fallen, 

I  give  not  heaven  for  lost.    From  this  de- 
scent 

Celestial  virtues  rising,  will  appear 
More  glorious  and  more  dread  than  from 

no  fall, 

And  trust  themselves  to  fear  no  second  fate. 
Me,  though  just  right,  and  the  fixed  laws 

of  heaven, 
Did  first  create  your  leader;  next,  free 

choice, 

With  what  besides,  in  council  or  in  fight, 
Hath  been  achieved  of  merit;  yet  this  loss, 
Thus  far  at  least  recovered,  hath  much 

more 

Established  in  a  safe  unenvied  throne, 
Yielded  with  full  consent.    The  happier 

state 
In  heaven,  which  follows  dignity,  might 

draw 

Envy  from  each  inferior;  but  who  here 
Will  envy  whom  the  highest  place  exposes 
Foremost  to  stand  against  the  Thunderer's 

aim, 
Your  bulwark,  and  condemns  to  greatest 

share 


6o 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Of  endless  pain?    Where  there  is  then  no 

good 
For  which  to  strive,  no  strife  can  grow  up 

there 
From  faction;  for  none  sure  will  claim  in 

hell 

Precedence;  none  whose  portion  is  so  small 
Of  present  pain,  that  with  ambitious  mind 
Will  covet  more.  With  this  advantage, 

then, 

To  union,  and  firm  faith,  and  firm  accord, 
More  than  can  be  in  heaven,  we  now  re- 
turn 

To  claim  our  just  inheritance  of  old. 
Surer  to  prosper  than  prosperity 
Could  have  assured  us;  and,  by  what  best 

way, 

Whether  of  open  war  or  covert  guile, 
We  now  debate:  who  can  advise,  may 

speak." 
He  ceased;  and  next  him  Moloch,  scep- 

tered  king, 
Stood  up,  the  strongest  and  the  fiercest 

spirit 
That  fought  in  heaven,  now  fiercer  by 

despair. 
His  trust  was  with  the  Eternal  to  be 

deemed 

Equal  hi  strength;  and  rather  than  be  less, 
Cared  not  to  be  at  all;  with  that  care  lost 
Went  all  his  fear:  of  God,  or  hell,  or  worse, 
He  recked  not;  and  these  words  thereafter 

spake: — 

"My  sentence  is  for  open  war:  of  wiles, 
More  unexpert,  I  boast  not;  them  let  those 
Contrive  who  need,  or  when  they  need,  not 

now. 
For,  while  they  sit  contriving,  shall  the 

rest, 
Millions  that  stand  in  arms,  and  longing 

wait 

The  signal  to  ascend,  sit  lingering  here 
Heaven's  fugitives,  and  for  their  dwelling 

place 
Accept    this   dark,    opprobrious    den    of 

shame, 

The  prison  of  his  tyranny  who  reigns 
By  our  delay?    No,  let  us  rather  choose, 
Armed  with  hell-flames  and  fury,  all  at 

once, 

O'er  heaven's  high  towers  to  force  resist- 
less way, 


Turning  our  tortures  into  horrid  arms 
Against  the  torturer;  when,  to  meet  the 

noise 

Of  his  almighty  engine,  he  shall  hear 
Infernal  thunder;  and,  for  lightning,  see 
Black  fire  and  horror  shot  with  equal  rage 
Among  his  angels;  and  his  throne  itself 
Mixed  with  Tartarean  sulphur,  and  strange 

fire, 

His  own  invented  torments.     But  perhaps 
The  way  seems  difficult  and  steep  to  scale 
With  upright  wing  against  a  higher  foe. 
Let  such  bethink  them,  if  the  sleepy  drench 
Of  that  forgetful  lake  benumb  not  still, 
That  in  our  proper  motion  we  ascend 
Up  to  our  native  seat ;  descent  and  fall 
To  us  is  adverse.    Who  but  felt  of  late, 
When  the  fierce  foe  hung  on  our  broken 

rear 
Insulting,  and  pursued  us  through  the 

deep, 

With  what  compulsion  and  laborious  flight 
We  sunk  thus  low?    The  ascent  is  easy 

then; 

The  event  is  feared;  should  we  again  pro- 
voke 
Our  stronger,  some  worse  way  his  wrath 

may  find 

To  our  destruction;  if  there  be  in  hell 
Fear  to  be  worse  destroyed;  what  can  be 

worse 
Than  to  dwell  here,  driven  out  from  bliss, 

condemned 

In  this  abhorred  deep  to  utter  woe; 
Where  pain  of  unextinguishable  fire 
Must  exercise  us  without  hope  of  end, 
The  vassals  of  his  anger,  when  the  scourge 
Inexorable,  and  the  torturing  hour, 
Calls  us  to  penance?    More  destroyed  than 

thus, 

We  should  be  quite  abolished,  and  expire. 
What  fear  we,  then?  what  doubt  we  to  in- 
cense 

His  utmost  ire?  which,  to  the  height  en- 
raged, 

Will  either  quite  consume  us,  and  reduce 
To  nothing  this  essential  (happier  far 
Than  miserable  to  have  eternal  being), 
Or,  if  our  substance  be  indeed  divine, 
And  cannot  cease  to  be,  we  are  at  worst 
On  this  side  nothing;  and  by  proof  we  feel 
Our  power  sufficient  to  disturb  his  heaven, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


61 


And  with  perpetual  inroads  to  alarm, 
Though  inaccessible,  his  fatal  throne; 
Which,  if  not  victory,  is  yet  revenge." 
He  ended  frowning,  and  his  look  de- 
nounced 

Desperate  revenge,  and  battle  dangerous 
To  less  than  gods.     On  the  other  side  up- 
rose 

Belial,  in  act  more  graceful  and  humane; 
A  fairer  person  lost  not  heaven ;  he  seemed 
For  dignity  composed,  and  high  exploit: 
But  all  was  false  and  hollow,  though  his 

tongue 
Dropt  manna,  and  could  make  the  worse 

appear 

The  better  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 
Maturest  counsels:  for  his  thoughts  were 

low: 

To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 
Timorous  and  slothful;  yet  he  pleased  the 

ear, 

And  with  persuasive  accent  thus  began: — 
"  I  should  be  much  for  open  war,  O  peers, 
As  not  behind  in  hate;  if  what  was  urged 
Main  reason  to  persuade  immediate  war, 
Did  not  dissuade  me  most,  and  seem  to  cast 
Ominous  conjecture  on  the  whole  success 
When  he  who  most  excels  in  fact  of  arms, 
In  what  he  counsels  and  in  what  excels 
Mistrustful,  grounds  his  courage  on  despair 
And  utter  dissolution  as  the  scope 
Of  all  his  aim,  after  some  dire  revenge. 
First,    what    revenge?    The    towers    of 

heaven  are  filled 

With  armed  watch,  that  render  all  access 
Impregnable;  oft  on  the  bordering  deep 
Encamp  their  legions;  or,  with  obscure 

wing, 

Scout  far  and  wide  into  the  realm  of  night, 
Scorning  surprise.    Or  could  we  break  our 

way 
By  force,  and  at  our  heels  all  hell  should 

rise 

With  blackest  insurrection,  to  confound 
Heaven's    purest    light;    yet    our    great 

enemy, 

All  incorruptible,  would  on  his  throne 
Sit  unpolluted,  and  the  ethereal  mold, 
Incapable  of  stain,  would  soon  expel 
Her  mischief,  and  purge  off  the  baser  fire, 
Victorious.    Thus  repulsed,  our  final  hope 
Is  flat  despair:  we  must  exasperate 


The  Almighty  Victor  to  spend  all  his  rage, 
And  that  must  end  us;  that  must  be  our 

cure, 
To  be  no  more.     Sad  cure!  for  who  would 

lose, 

Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being, 
Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eter- 
nity, 

To  perish  rather,  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  night, 
Devoid  of  sense  and  motion?    And  who 

knows, 

Let  this  be  good,  whether  our  angry  foe 
Can  give  it,  or  will  ever?  how  he  can, 
Is  doubtful;  that  he  never  will,  is  sure. 
Will  he,  so  wise,  let  loose  at  once  his  ire 
Belike  through  impotence,  or  unaware, 
To  give  his  enemies  their  wish,  and  end 
Them  in  his  anger  whom  his  anger  saves 
To  punish  endless?    '  Wherefore  cease  we 

then?' 

Say  they  who  counsel  war.    'We  are  de- 
creed, 

Reserved,  and  destined  to  eternal  woe; 
Whatever  doing,  what  can  we  suffer  more, 
What  can  we  suffer  worse? '    Is  this  then 

worst, 

Thus  sitting,  thus  consulting,  thus  in  arms? 
What,  when  we  fled  amain,  pursued,  and 

struck 

With  heaven's  afflicting  thunder,  and  be- 
sought 
The  deep  to  shelter  us?   this  hell  then 

seemed 
A  refuge  from  those  wounds;  or  when  we 

lay 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake?  that  sure  was 

worse. 
What  if  the  breath  that  kindled  those  grim 

fires, 
Awaked,  should  blow  them  into  sevenfold 

rage, 
And  plunge  us  in  the  flames?  or,  from 

above, 

Should  intermitted  vengeance  arm  again 
His  red  right  hand  to  plague  us?    What 

if  all 

Her  stores  were  opened,  and  this  firmament 
Of  hell  should  spout  her  cataracts  of  fire, 
Impendent  horrors,  threatening  hideous  fall 
One  day  upon  our  heads;  while  we,  per- 
haps, 


62 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Designing  or  exhorting  glorious  war, 
Caught  in  a  fiery  tempest,  shall  be  hurled 
Each  on  his  rock  transfixed,  the  sport  and 

prey 

Of  racking  whirlwinds;  or  for  ever  sunk 
Under  yon  boiling  ocean,  wrapt  in  chains; 
There  to  converse  with  everlasting  groans, 
Unrespited,  unpitied,  unreprieved, 
Ages  of  hopeless  end?    This  would  be 

worse. 

War,  therefore,  open  or  concealed,  alike 
My  voice  dissuades;  for  what  can  force  or 

guile 
With  him,  or  who  deceive  his  mind,  whose 

eye 
Views  all  things  at  one  view?    He  from 

heaven's  height 

All  these  our  motions  vain  sees  and  de- 
rides: 

Not  more  almighty  to  resist  our  might, 
Than  wise  to  frustrate  all  our  plots  and 

wiles. 
Shall  we  then  live  thus  vile,  the  race  of 

heaven 
Thus  trampled,  thus  expelled,  to  suffer 

here 
Chains  and  these  torments?    Better  these 

than  worse, 

By  my  advice;  since  fate  inevitable 
Subdues  us,  and  omnipotent  decree, 
The  victor's  will.    To  suffer,  as  to  do, 
Our  strength  is  equal,  nor  the  law  unjust 
That  so  ordains;  this  was  at  first  resolved, 
If  we  were  wise,  against  so  great  a  foe 
Contending,  and  so  doubtful  what  might 

faU. 
I  laugh,  when  those  who  at  the  spear  are 

bold 
And  venturous,  if  that  fail  them,  shrink 

and  fear 

What  yet  they  know  must  follow,  to  en- 
dure 

Exile,  or  ignominy,  or  bonds,  or  pain, 
The  sentence  of  their  conqueror;  this  is 

now 
Our  doom;  which  if  we  can  sustain  and 

bear, 

Our  supreme  foe  in  time  may  much  remit 
His  anger;  and  perhaps,  thus  far  removed, 
Not  mind  us  not  offending,  satisfied 
With  what  is  punished;  whence  these  rag- 
ing fires 


Will  slacken,  if  his  breath  stir  not  their 

flames. 

Our  purer  essence  then  will  overcome 
Their  noxious  vapor;  or,  inured,  not  feel; 
Or,  changed  at  length,  and  to  the  place 

conformed 

In  temper  and  in  nature,  will  receive 
Familiar  the  fierce  heat,  and  void  of  pain; 
This  horror  will  grow  mild,  this  darkness 

light; 

Besides  what  hope  the  never-ending  flight 
Of  future  days  may  bring,  what  chance, 

what  change 

Worth  waiting;  since  our  present  lot  ap- 
pears 

For  happy  though  but  ill,  for  ill  not  worst, 

If  we  procure  not  to  ourselves  more  woe." 

Thus   Belial,    with   words   clothed   in 

reason's  garb, 

Counseled  ignoble  ease,  and  peaceful  sloth, 
Not  peace;  and  after  him  thus  Mammon 

spake: — 
"Either  to   disenthrone   the   King   of 

heaven 

We  war,  if  war  be  best,  or  to  regain 
Our  own  right  lost:  him  to  unthrone  we 

then 

May  hope,  when  everlasting  fate  shall  yield 
To  fickle  chance,  and  Chaos  judge  the 

strife: 

The  former,  vain  to  hope,  argues  as  vain 
The  latter;  for  what  place  can  be  for  us 
Within  heaven's  bound,  unless  heaven's 

Lord  supreme 

We  overpower?  Suppose  he  should  relent, 
And  publish  grace  to  all,  on  promise  made 
Of  new  subjection;  with  what  eyes  could 

we 

Stand  in  his  presence  humble,  and  receive 
Strict  laws  imposed,  to  celebrate  his  throne 
With  warbled  hymns,  and  to  his  Godhead 

sing 

Forced  hallelujahs,  while  he  lordly  sits 
Our    envied     sovereign,    and     his    altar 

breathes 

Ambrosial  odors  and  ambrosial  flowers, 
Our  servile  offerings?    This  must  be  our 

task 

In  heaven,  this  our  delight;  how  wearisome 
Eternity  so  spent,  in  worship  paid 
To  whom  we  hate !  Let  us  not  then  pursue 
By  force  impossible,  by  leave  obtained 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Unacceptable,    though    in    heaven,    our 

state 

Of  splendid  vassalage;  but  rather  seek 
Our  own  good  from  ourselves,  and  from  our 

own 

Live  to  ourselves,  though  in  this  vast  re- 
cess, 

Free,  and  to  none  accountable,  preferring 
Hard  liberty  before  the  easy  yoke 
Of  servile  pomp.     Our  greatness  will  ap- 
pear 
Then  most  conspicuous,  when  great  things 

of  small, 

Useful  of  hurtful,  prosperous  of  adverse, 
We  can  create;  and  in  what  place  soe'er 
Thrive  under  evil,  and  work  ease  out  of 

pain, 
Through  labor  and  endurance.    This  deep 

world 
Of    darkness    do    we    dread?    How    oft 

amidst 

Thick  clouds  and  dark  doth  heaven's  all- 
ruling  Sire 

Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unobscured, 
And  with  the  majesty  of  darkness  round 
Covers  his  throne;  from  whence  deep  thun- 
ders roar, 

Mustering  their  rage,  and  heaven  resem- 
bles hell! 

As  he  our  darkness,  cannot  we  his  light 
Imitate  when  we  please?    This  desert  soil 
Wants  not  her  hidden  luster,  gems  and 

gold; 
Nor  want  we  skill  or  art,  from  whence  to 

raise 
Magnificence;  and  what  can  heaven  show 

more? 

Our  torments  also  may  in  length  of  time 
Become  our  elements;  these  piercing  fires 
As  soft  as  now  severe,  our  temper  changed 
Into  their  temper;  which  must  needs  re- 
move 

The  sensible  of  pain.     All  things  invite 
To  peaceful  counsels,  and  the  settled  state 
Of  order,  how  in  safety  best  we  may 
Compose  our  present  evils,  with  regard 
Of  what  we  are,  and  where;  dismissing 

quite 

All  thoughts  of  war.     Ye  have  what  I  ad- 
vise." 

He  scarce  had  finished,  when  such  mur- 
mur filled 


The  assembly,  as  when  hollow  rocks  re- 
tain 
The  sound  of  blustering  winds  which  all 

night  long 

Had  roused  the  sea,  now  with  hoarse  ca- 
dence lull 
Seafaring  men  o'er-watched,  whose  bark 

by  chance 

Or  pinnace  anchors  in  a  craggy  bay 
After   the   tempest:   such  applause  was 

heard 
As   Mammon   ended,   and   his   sentence 

pleased, 

Advising  peace;  for  such  another  field 
They  dreaded  worse  than  hell;  so  much  the 

fear 

Of  thunder  and  the  sword  of  Michael 
Wrought  still  within  them,  and  no  less 

desire 
To  found  this  nether  empire,  which  might 

rise 

By  policy,  and  long  process  of  time, 
In  emulation  opposite  to  heaven. 
Which  when  Beelzebub  perceived,  than 

whom, 

Satan  except,  none  higher  sat,  with  grave 
Aspect  he  rose,  and  in  his  rising  seemed 
A  pillar  of  state;  deep  on  his  front  en- 
graven 

Deliberation  sat,  and  public  care; 
And  princely  counsel  in  his  face  yet  shone, 
Majestic,  though  in  ruin;  sage  he  stood. 
With  Atlantean  shoulders  fit  to  bear 
The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies;  his 

look 

Drew  audience  and  attention  still  as  night 
Or  summer's  noontide  air,  while  thus  he 

spake : — 
"  Thrones  and  imperial  powers,  offspring 

of  heaven, 

Ethereal  virtues!  or  these  titles  now 
Must  we  renounce,  and,  changing  style,  be 

called 

Princes  of  hell,  for  so  the  popular  vote 
Inclines,  here  to  continue  and  build  up 

here 
A  growing  empire;  doubtless,  while  we 

dream, 
And  know  not  that  the  King  of  heaven 

hath  doomed 

This  place  our  dungeon;  not  our  safe  re- 
treat 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Beyond  his  potent  arm;  to  live  exempt 
From  heaven's  high  jurisdiction,  in  new 

league 

Banded  against  his  throne,  but  to  remain 
In  strictest  bondage,  though  thus  far  re- 
moved, 

Under  the  inevitable  curb,  reserved 
His  captive  multitude;  for  he,  be  sure, 
In  height  or  depth,  still  first  and  last  will 

reign 

Sole  king,  and  of  his  kingdom  lose  no  part 
By  our  revolt,  but  over  hell  extend 
His  empire,  and  with  iron  scepter  rule 
Us  here,  as  with  his  golden  those  in  heaven. 
What  sit  we  then  projecting  peace  and 

war? 
War  hath  determined  us,  and  foiled  with 

loss 

Irreparable;  terms  of  peace  yet  none 
Vouchsafed  or  sought;  for  what  peace  will 

be  given 

To  us  enslaved  but  custody  severe, 
And  stripes,  and  arbitrary  punishment 
Inflicted?  and  what  peace  can  we  return, 
But  to  our  power  hostility  and  hate, 
Untamed  reluctance,  and  revenge,  though 

slow, 

Yet  ever  plotting  how  the  Conqueror  least 
May  reap  his  conquest,  and  may  least  re- 
joice 

In  doing  what  we  most  in  suffering  feel? 
Nor  will  occasion  want,  nor  shall  we  need 
With  dangerous  expedition  to  invade 
Heaven,  whose  high  walls  fear  no  assault 

or  siege, 
Or  ambush  from  the  deep.    What  if  we 

find 

Some  easier  enterprise?    There  is  a  place 
(If  ancient  and  prophetic  fame  hi  heaven 
Err  not),  another  world,  the  happy  seat 
Of  some  new  race,  called  Man,  about  this 

time 

To  be  created  like  to  us,  though  less 
In  power  and  excellence,  but  favored  more 
Of  him  who  rules  above;  so  was  his  will 
Pronounced  among  the  gods;  and  by  an 

oath 
That  shook  heaven's  whole  circumference 

confirmed. 
Thither  let  us  bend  all  our  thoughts,  to 

learn 
What  creatures  there  inhabit,  of  what  mold 


Or  substance,  how  endued,  and  what  their 

power, 
And  where  their  weakness,  how  attempted 

best, 
By  force  or  subtlety.    Though  heaven  be 

shut, 

And  heaven's  high  Arbitrator  sit  secure 
In  his  own  strength,  this  place  may  lie 

exposed, 

The  utmost  border  of  his  kingdom,  left 
To  their  defense  who  hold  it ;  here  perhaps 
Some  advantageous  act  may  be  achieved 
By  sudden  onset ;  either  with  hell-fire 
To  waste  his  whole  creation,  or  possess 
All  as  our  own,  and  drive,  as  we  were 

driven, 

The  puny  habitants;  or,  if  not  drive, 
Seduce  them  to  our  party,  that  their  God 
May  prove  their  foe,  and  with  repenting 

hand 

Abolish  his  own  works.    This  would  sur- 
pass 

Common  revenge,  and  interrupt  his  joy 
In  our  confusion,  and  our  joy  upraise 
In  his  disturbance,  when  his  darling  sons, 
Hurled  headlong  to  partake  with  us,  shall 

curse 

Their  frail  original  and  faded  bliss, 
Faded  so  soon.     Advise,  if  this  be  worth 
Attempting,  or  to  sit  in  darkness  here 
Hatching  vain  empires."    Thus  Beelzebub 
Pleaded  his  devilish  counsel,  first  devised 
By  Satan,  and  in  part  proposed :  for  whence 
But  from  the  author  of  all  ill  could  spring 
So  deep  a  malice,  to  confound  the  race 
Of  mankind  in  one  root,  and  earth  with 

hell 

To  mingle  and  involve,  done  all  to  spite 
The  great  Creator?    But  their  spite  still 

serves 

His  glory  to  augment.    The  bold  design 
Pleased  highly  those  infernal  states,  and 

joy 

Sparkled  in  all  their  eyes:  with  full  assent 
They  vote:  whereat  his  speech  he  thu<  re- 
news:— 
"Well  have  ye  judged,  well  ended  long 

debate, 

Synod  of  gods,  and,  like  to  what  ye  are, 
Great  things  resolved,  which  from  the 

lowest  deep 
Will  once  more  lift  us  up,  in  spite  of  fate. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Nearer  our  ancient  seat:  perhaps  in  view 
Of  those  bright  confines,  whence,  with 

neighboring  arms, 

And  opportune  excursion,  we  may  chance 
Re-enter  heaven;  or  else  in  some   mild 

zone 

Dwell,  not  unvisited  of  heaven's  fair  light, 
Secure ;  and  at  the  brightening  orient  beam 
Purge  off  this  gloom ;  the  soft  delicious  air, 
To  heal  the  scar  of  these  corrosive  fires, 
Shall  breathe  her  balm.     But  first,  whom 

shall  we  send 
In  search  of  this  new  world?  whom  shall 

we  find 
Sufficient?  who  shall  tempt  with  wandering 

feet 

The  dark,  unbottomed,  infinite  abyss, 
And  through   the  palpable  obscure  find 

out 

His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  aery  flight, 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings, 
Over  the  vast  abrupt,  ere  he  arrive 
The  happy  isle?    What  strength,  what  art, 

can  then 

Suffice,  or  what  evasion  bear  him  safe 
Through  the  strict  senteries  and  stations 

thick 
Of  angels  watching  round?    Here  he  had 

need 

All  circumspection,  and  we  now  no  less 
Choice  in  our  suffrage;  for,  on  whom  we 

send, 

The  weight  of  all,  and  our  last  hope  relies." 
This  said,  he  sat;  and  expectation  held 
His  look  suspense,  awaiting  who  appeared 
To  second,  or  oppose,  or  undertake 
The  perilous  attempt:  but  all  sat  mute, 
Pondering  the  danger  with  deep  thoughts; 

and  each 

In  other's  countenance  read  his  own  dis- 
may, 
Astonished:  none  among  the  choice  and 

prime 
Of  those  heaven-warring  champions  could 

be  found 

So  hardy  as  to  proffer  or  accept, 
Alone,  the  dreadful  voyage;  till  at  last 
Satan,    whom    now    transcendent    glory 

raised 

Above  his  fellows,  with  monarchal  pride, 
Conscious  of  highest  worth,  unmoved  thus 

spake  :— 


"O     progeny     of     heaven!     empyreal 

thrones! 

With  reason  hath  deep  silence  and  demur 
Seized  us,  though  undismayed.    Long  is 

the  way 
And  hard,  that  out  of  hell  leads  up  to 

light; 

Our  prison  strong;  this  huge  convex  of  fire, 
Outrageous  to  devour,  immures  us  round 
Ninefold;  and  gates  of  burning  adamant, 
Barred  over  us,  prohibit  all  egress. 
These  passed,  if  any  pass,  the  void  pro- 
found 

Of  unessential  night  receives  him  next, 
Wide-gaping,  and  with  utter  loss  of  being 
Threatens  him  plunged  in  that  abortive 

gulf. 

If  thence  he  'scape  into  whatever  world 
Or  unknown  region,  what  remains  him  less 
Than  unknown  dangers  and  as  hard  es- 
cape? 
But  I  should  ill  become  this  throne,  O 

peers, 

And  this  imperial  sovereignty,  adorned 
With  splendor,  armed  with  power,  if  aught 

proposed 

And  judged  of  public  moment,  in  the  shape 
Of  difficulty  or  danger,  could  deter 
Me  from  attempting.    Wherefore  do  I 

assume 

These  royalties,  and  not  refuse  to  reign, 
Refusing  to  accept  as  great  a  share 
Of  hazard  as  of  honor,  due  alike 
To  him  who  reigns,  and  so  much  to  him  due 
Of  hazard  more,  as  he  above  the  rest 
High  honored  sits?    Go,  therefore,  mighty 

powers, 
Terror  of  heaven,  though  fallen;  intend  at 

home 
(While  here  shall  be  our  home)  what  best 

may  ease 

The  present  misery,  and  render  hell 
More  tolerable;  if  there  be  cure  or  charm 
To  respite,  or  deceive,  or  slack  the  pain 
Of  this  ill  mansion;  intermit  no  watch 
Against  a  wakeful  foe,  while  I  abroad 
Through  all  the  coasts  of  dark  destruction 

seek 

Deliverance  for  us  all:  this  enterprise 
None  shall  partake  with  me."    Thus  say- 
ing, rose 
The  monarch,  and  prevented  all  reply; 


66 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Prudent,  lest  from  his  resolution  raised 
Others  among  the  chief  might  offer  now 
(Certain  to  be  refused)  what  erst  they 

feared; 

And,  so  refused,  might  in  opinion  stand 
His  rivals;  winning  cheap  the  high  repute 
Which  he  through  hazard  huge  must  earn. 

But  they 
Dreaded  not  more  the  adventure  than  his 

voice 

Forbidding;  and  at  once  with  him  they  rose. 
Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  heard  remote.    Towards  him 

they  bend 

With  awful  reverence  prone;  and  as  a  god 
Extol  him  equal  to  the  Highest  in  heaven. 
Nor  failed  they  to  express  how  much  they 

praised 

That  for  the  general  safety  he  despised 
'His  own:  for  neither  do  the  spirits  damned 
Lose  all  their  virtue;  lest  bad  men  should 

boast 
Their  specious  deeds  on  earth,  which  glory 

excites 

Or  close  ambition  varnished  o'er  with  zeal. 
Thus  they  their  doubtful  consultations 

dark 


Ended,  rejoicing  in  their  matchless  chief. 
As  when  from  mountain-tops  the  dusky 

clouds 
Ascending,  while  the  north  wind  sleeps, 

o'erspread 

Heaven's  cheerful  face,  the  louring  element 
Scowls  o'er  the  darkened  landscape  snow 

or  shower; 
If  chance  the  radiant  sun,  with  farewell 

sweet, 

Extend  his  evening  beam,  the  fields  revive, 
The  birds  their  notes  renew,  and  bleating 

herds 

Attest  their  joy,  that  hill  and  valley  rings. 
O  shame  to  men !  devil  with  devil  damned 
Firm  concord  holds,  men  only  disagree 
Of  creatures  rational,  though  under  hope 
Of  heavenly  grace;  and,  God  proclaiming 

peace, 

Yet  live  in  hatred,  enmity,  and  strife 
Among  themselves,  and  levy  cruel  wars, 
Wasting  the  earth,  each  other  to  destroy: 
As  if  (which  might  induce  us  to  accord) 
Man  had  not  hellish  foes  enough  besides, 
That  day  and  night  for  his  destruction  wait. 

(1667). 


BEOWULF 

Beowulf  (composed  in  its  present  form  about  900  A.  D.),  is  the  epic  poem  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
the  materials  for  which  had  been  brought  from  its  original  Germanic  home.  Beowulf,  with  fourteen 
companions,  sails  to  Denmark  to  offer  his  help  to  King  Hrothgar,  whose  hall  has  for  years  been  ravaged 
by  a  sea-monster  named  Grendel.  After  an  evening  of  feasting,  Beowulf  and  his  friends  are  left  in  the 
hall  alone,  Grendel  enters,  and  there  follows  a  fearful  struggle  between  the  monster  and  Beowulf,  whose 
grip  is  equal  to  that  of  thirty  men.  The  monster  escapes  but  leaves  his  arm,  torn  from  the  shoulder,  in 
his  conqueror's  grasp.  The  next  day,  all  unexpectedly,  the  mother  of  Grendel,  seeking  revenge  for  the 
death  of  her  son,  invades  the  hall  and  devours  one  of  the  Danish  thanes.  Beowulf  pursues  her  with 
his  sword  and  shield  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  where  he  finally  slays  her  after  a  severe  combat.  The 
latter  half  of  the  poem  recounts  the  hero's  fifty  years'  reign  over  his  people  and  his  death  in  defense  of 
his  land  from  the  terror  of  a  dragon. 

This,  in  substance,  is  the  heroic  poem  which  reveals  to  us  the  habits  of  our  ancestors,  their  manner 
of  living,  then-  ideals  of  hospitality  and  generosity  and  honor  to  their  women.  The  episode  of  the  com- 
bat with  GrendePs  dam  is  given  below. 


BEOWULF  AND  GRENDEL'S  MOTHER* 

XIX 

GRENDEL'S  mother  cometh  to  avenge  her  son.     She 
seizes  jEschere  in  Heorot. 

THEN  they  sank  to  sleep.    But  one  paid 
dearly  for  his  evening  rest,  as  had  often 

•From  Beowulf,  translated  out  of  the  Old  English  by 
the  publishers,  Messrs.  Newson  and  Company. 


happened  when  Grendel  occupied  that 
gold-hall  and  wrought  evil  till  his  end 
came,  death  for  his  sins.  It  now  became 
evident  to  men  that,  though  the  foe  was 
dead,  there  yet  lived  for  a  long  time  after 
the  fierce  combat,  an  avenger — Grendel's 
mother.  The  witch,  woman-monster, 
brooded  over  her  woes,  she  who  was 

Chauncey  Brewster  Tinker,  Ph.  D.    Used  by  permission  of 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


doomed  to  dwell  among  the  terrors  of  the 
waters,  in  the  cold  streams,  from  the  time 
when  Cain  slew  with  the  sword  his  only 
brother,  his  own  father's  son, — then  he 
departed,  banished,  marked  with  murder, 
fleeing  from  the  joys  of  men  and  dwelt  in 
the  wilderness.  From  him  there  woke  to 
life  many  Fate-sent  demons.  One  of  these 
was  Grendel,  a  fierce  wolf,  full  of  hatred. 
But  he  had  found  at  Heorot  a  man  on  the 
watch,  waiting  to  give  him  battle.  Then 
the  monster  grappled  with  him,  but  Beo- 
wulf bethought  him  of  his  mighty  strength, 
the  gift  of  God,  and  in  Him  as  the  Al- 
mighty he  trusted  for  favor,  for  help  and 
succor;  in  this  trust  he  overcame  the  fiend, 
laid  low  that  spirit  of  hell.  Then  Grendel, 
enemy  to  mankind,  went  forth  joyless  to 
behold  the  abode  of  death.  But  his 
mother,  still  wroth  and  ravenous,  deter- 
mined to  go  a  sad  journey  to  avenge  the 
death  of  her  son;  and  she  came  to  Heorot, 
where  the  Ring-Danes  lay  asleep  about 
the  hall.  Straightway  terror  fell  upon 
the  heroes  once  again  when  Grendel's 
mother  burst  in  upon  them.  But  the  fear 
was  less  than  in  the  time  of  Grendel,  even 
as  the  strength  of  maids,  or  a  woman's 
rage  in  war,  is  less  than  an  armed  man's, 
what  time  the  hilted  sword,  hammer- 
forged,  stained  with  blood,  cleaves  with  its 
keen  blade  the  boar  on  the  foeman's 
helmet.  There  above  the  benches  in  the 
hall  the  hard-edged  sword  was  drawn, 
and  many  a  shield  upreared,  fast  in  the 
hand;  none  thought  of  helm  or  broad 
corslet  when  the  terror  got  hold  of  him. 
She  was  in  haste,  for  she  was  discovered; 
£he  wished  to  get  thence  with  her  life.  Of 
a  sudden  she  clutched  one  of  the  heroes, 
and  was  off  to  the  fen.  The  mighty  war- 
rior, the  famed  hero  whom  the  hag  mur- 
dered in  his  sleep,  was  the  dearest  to 
Hrothgar  of  all  the  men  in  his  band  of 
comrades  between  the  seas.  Beowulf  was 
not  there;  for  another  lodging-place  had 
been  assigned  to  the  mighty  Geat  after  the 
giving  of  treasure.  A  cry  arose  in  Heorot. 
All  in  its  gore  she  had  taken  the  well-known 
arm;  sorrow  was  renewed  again  in  the 
dwellings.  No  good  exchange  was  that 
which  cost  both  peoples  the  lives  of  friends. 


Then  the  old  king,  the  hoary  warrior, 
was  sad  at  heart  when  he  learned  that  his 
chief  thane  had  lost  his  life,  that  his  dear- 
est friend  was  dead.  Straightway  Beo- 
wulf, the  hero  blessed  with  victory,  was 
brought  to  the  bower;  the  prince,  the  noble 
warrior,  went  at  daybreak  with  his  com- 
rades to  where  the  prudent  king  was  wait- 
ing to  know  if  perchance  the  Almighty 
would  ever  work  a  happy  change  for  him, 
after  the  tidings  of  woe.  And  the  hero, 
famed  in  war,  went  o'er  the  floor  with 
his  band  of  thanes, — while  loud  the  hall 
resounded, — to  greet  the  wise  lord  of  the 
Ingwines;  he  asked  if  his  night  had  been 
restful,  as  he  had  wished. 

XX 

HSOTHGAR    lamenteth    for    ^Eschere.    He    tells 
Beowulf  of  the  monster  and  her  haunt. 

HROTHGAR,  defence  of  the  Scyldings, 
spoke:  "Ask  not  after  bliss, — sorrow  is 
renewed  in  the  hall  for  the  Danish  people. 
^Eschere  is  dead,  Yrmenlaf 's  elder  brother, 
my  councilor  and  my  adviser,  who  stood 
by  me,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  when  we 
warded  our  heads  in  battle,  while  hosts 
rushed  together  and  helmets  crashed. 
Like  ^Eschere  should  every  noble  be, — an 
excellent  hero.  He  was  slain  in  Heorot  by 
a  restless  destroyer. 

"I  know  not  whither  the  awful  monster, 
exulting  over  her  prey,  has  turned  her 
homeward  steps,  rejoicing  in  her  fill. 
She  has  avenged  the  strife  in  which  thou 
slewest  Grendel  yesternight,  grappling 
fiercely  with  him,  for  that  he  too  long  had 
wasted  and  destroyed  my  people.  He  fell 
in  battle,  forfeiting  his  life,  and  now  an- 
other is  come,  a  mighty  and  a  deadly  foe, 
thinking  to  avenge  her  son.  She  has 
carried  the  feud  further;  wherefore  it  may 
well  seem  a  heavy  woe  to  many  a  thane 
who  grieveth  in  spirit  for  his  treasure-giver. 
Low  lies  the  hand  which  did  satisfy  all 
your  desires. 

"I  have  heard  the  people  dwelling  in 
my  land,  hall-rulers,  say  that  they  had 
often  seen  two  such  mighty  stalkers  of  the 
marches,  spirits  of  otherwhere,  haunting 


68 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


the  moors.  One  of  them,  as  they  could 
know  full  well,  was  like  unto  a  woman;  the 
other  miscreated  being,  in  the  image  of 
man  wandered  in  exile  (save  that  he  was 
larger  than  any  man),  whom  in  the  olden 
tune  the  people  named  Grendel.  They 
know  not  if  he  ever  had  a  father  among 
the  spirits  of  darkness.  They  dwell  in  a 
hidden  land  amid  wolf-haunted  slopes  and 
savage  fen-paths,  nigh  the  wind-swept 
cliffs  where  the  mountain-stream  falleth, 
shrouded  in  the  mists  of  the  headlands,  its 
flood  flowing  underground.  It  is  not  far 
thence  in  measurement  of  miles  that  the 
mere  lieth.  Over  it  hang  groves  in  hoary 
whiteness;  a  forest  with  fixed  roots  bend- 
eth  over  the  waters.  There  in  the  night- 
tide  is  a  dread  wonder  seen, — a  fire  on 
the  flood!  There  is  none  of  the  children 
of  men  so  wise  that  he  knoweth  the 
depths  thereof.  Although  hard  pressed 
by  hounds,  the  heath-ranging  stag,  with 
mighty  horns,  may  seek  out  that  forest, 
driven  from  afar,  yet  sooner  will  he  yield 
up  life  and  breath  upon  the  bank  than  hide 
his  head  within  its  waters.  Cheerless  is 
the  place.  Thence  the  surge  riseth,  wan 
to  the  clouds,  when  the  winds  stir  up  foul 
weather,  till  the  air  thicken  and  the 
heavens  weep. 

"Now  once  again  help  rests  with  thee 
alone.  Thou  knowest  not  yet  the  spot, 
the  savage  place  where  thou  mayst  find 
the  sinful  creature.  Seek  it  out,  if  thou 
dare.  I  will  reward  thee,  as  I  did  afore- 
time with  olden  treasures  and  with  twisted 
gold,  if  thou  get  thence  alive." 

XXI 

THEY  track  Grendel's  mother  to  the  mere.     Beo- 
wulf slayeth  a  sea-monster. 

THEN  spoke  Beowulf,  son  of  Ecgtheow: 
"  Sorrow  not,  thou  wise  man.  It  is  better 
for  a  man  to  avenge  his  friend  than  mourn 
exceedingly.  Each  of  us  must  abide  the 
end  of  the  worldly  life,  wherefore  let  him 
who  may  win  glory  ere  he  die;  thus  shall 
it  be  best  for  a  warrior  when  life  is  past. 
Arise,  O  guardian  of  the  kingdom,  let  us 
straightway  go  and  look  upon  the  tracks  of 


Grendel's  dam.  I  promise  thee  this:  she 
shall  not  escape  to  the  covert,  nor  to  the 
bosom  of  the  earth,  nor  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  go  where  she  will.  This  day  do 
thou  bear  in  patience  every  woe  of  thine, 
as  I  expect  of  thee." 

Then  the  old  man  sprang  up  and 
thanked  God,  the  mighty  Lord,  for  what 
that  man  had  said.  And  they  bridled 
Hrothgar's  horse,  a  steed  with  wavy  mane. 
The  wise  prince  rode  out  in  stately  wise, 
and  a  troop  of  warriors  marched  forth 
with  their  shields.  Footprints  were  clearly 
to  be  seen  along  the  forest-path,  her  track 
across  the  lands.  She  had  gone  forth, 
right  over  the  murky  moor,  and  borne 
away  lifeless  that  best  of  thanes,  who  with 
Hrothgar  ruled  the  hall. 

And  the  offspring  of  princes  went  over 
steep  and  rocky  slopes  and  narrow  ways; 
straight  lonely  passes,  an  unknown  course; 
over  sheer  cliffs  where  were  many  haunts 
of  the  sea-monsters.  He,  with  a  few  pru- 
dent men,  went  on  before  to  view  the 
spot,  until  he  suddenly  came  upon  moun- 
tain-trees o'er-hanging  the  gray  rock, — a 
cheerless  wood.  Beneath  it  lay  a  water, 
bloody  and  troubled.  All  the  Danes,  all 
the  friends  of  the  Scyldings,  each  hero  and 
many  a  thane,  were  sad  at  heart  and  had 
to  suffer  sore  distress;  for  there  upon  the 
sea-cliff  they  found  the  head  of  ^schere. 
The  waters  were  seething  with  blood  and 
hot  gore; — the  people  looked  upon  it. 

At  times  the  horn  sang  out  an  eager 
battle-lay.  All  the  troop  sat  down.  They 
saw  in  the  water  many  of  the  serpent  kind, 
strange  dragons  swimming  the  deep. 
Likewise  they  saw  sea-monsters  lying  along 
the  headland-slopes,  serpents  and  wild 
beasts,  who  oft  at  morning-tide  make  a 
journey,  fraught  with  sorrow,  over  the 
sail-road.  They  sped  away,  bitter  and 
swollen  with  wrath,  when  they  heard  the 
sound,  the  song  of  the  battle-horn.  But 
the  lord  of  the  Geats  with  bow  and  arrow 
took  the  life  of  one  of  them,  as  it  buffeted 
the  waves,  so  that  the  hard  shaft  pierced 
the  vitals;  he  was  then  the  slower  in  his 
swimming  on  the  sea,  for  death  seized  him. 
Straightway  he  was  hard  pressed  with  the 
sharp-barbs  of  the  boar-spears,  fiercely  at- 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


6g 


tacked,  and  drawn  up  on  the  cliff,  a  won- 
drous wave-tosser.  The  men  looked  on 
the  strange  and  grisly  beast. 

Then  Beowulf  girded  him  with  noble 
armor;  he  took  no  thought  for  his  life. 
His  byrnie,  hand-woven,  broad,  and  of 
many  colors,  was  to  search  out  the  deeps. 
This  armor  could  well  protect  his  body  so 
that  the  grip  of  the  foe  could  not  harm  his 
breast,  nor  the  clutch  of  the  angry  beast 
do  aught  against  his  life.  Moreover,  the 
white  helmet  guarded  his  head,  e'en  that 
which  was  to  plunge  into  the  depths  of 
the  mere,  passing  through  the  tumult  of 
the  waters;  it  was  all  decked  with  gold,  en- 
circled with  noble  chains,  as  the  weapon- 
smith  wrought  it  in  the  days  of  yore; 
wondrously  he  made  it,  and  set  it  about 
with  boar-figures  so  that  no  brand  nor 
battle-sword  could  bite  it. 

Nor  was  that  the  least  of  his  mighty  aids 
which  Hrothgar's  spokesman  lent  him  in 
his  need; — the  name  of  the  hilted  sword 
was  Hrunting,  and  it  was  one  of  the  great- 
est among  the  olden  treasures;  its  blade 
was  of  iron,  stained  with  poison-twigs, 
hardened  with  the  blood  of  battle;  it  had 
never  failed  any  man  whose  hand  had 
wielded  it  in  the  fight,  any  who  durst  go 
on  perilous  adventures  to  the  field  of 
battle; — it  was  not  the  first  time  that  it  had 
need  to  do  high  deeds.  Surely  when 
the  son  of  Ecglaf,  strong  in  his  might, 
lent  that  weapon  to  a  better  swordsman, 
he  did  not  remember  what  he  had  said 
when  drunk  with  wine;  for,  himself  he 
durst  not  risk  his  life  beneath  the  warring 
waves  and  do  a  hero's  deeds;  there  he  lost 
the  glory,  the  fame  of  valor.  It  was  not 
so  with  the  other  when  he  had  armed  him 
for  the  fight. 

XXII 

BEOWULF  bids  farewell  to  Hrothgar  and  plunges 
into  the  mere.  The  monster  seizes  upon  him. 
They  fight. 

THEN  spoke  Beowulf,  son  of  Ecgtheow: 
"  Remember,  thou  great  son  of  Healf dene, 
wise  chieftain,  gracious  friend  of  men,  now 
that  I  am  ready  for  this  exploit,  what  we 


two  spoke  of  aforetime;  that,  if  I  must 
needs  lose  my  life  for  thee,  thou  wouldst 
ever  be  as  a  father  to  me  when  I  was  gone 
hence.  Guard  thou  my  thanes,  my  own 
comrades,  if  the  fight  take  me,  and  do 
thou  also  send  unto  Hygelac  the  treasures 
that  thou  gavest  me,  beloved  Hrothgar. 
Then,  when  the  son  of  Hrethel,  lord  of 
the  Geats,  shall  look  upon  that  treasure, 
he  may  behold  and  see  by  the  gold  that  I 
found  a  bountiful  benefactor,  and  en- 
joyed these  gifts  while  I  might.  And  do 
thou  let  Unferth,  that  far-famed  man, 
have  the  old  heirloom,  the  wondrous  wavy 
sword  of  tempered  blade.  I  will  win  glory 
with  Hrunting,  or  death  shall  take  me." 

After  these  words  the  lord  of  the  Weder- 
Geats  boldly  made  haste;  he  would  await 
no  answer,  but  the  surging  waters  swal- 
lowed up  the  warrior.  It  was  the  space  of 
a  day  ere  he  got  sight  of  the  bottom. 

Soon  the  blood-thirsty  creature,  she  who 
had  lived  for  a  hundred  seasons,  grim  and 
greedy,  in  the  waters'  flow,  found  that  one 
was  there  from  above  seeking  out  the 
abode  of  monsters.  She  seized  upon  the 
warrior  and  clutched  him  with  her  horrid 
claws;  nevertheless  she  did  no  harm  to  his 
sound  body,  for  the  ringed  armor  girt  him 
round  about,  so  that  she  could  not  pierce 
the  byrnie,  the  linked  coat  of  mail,  with 
her  hateful  fingers.  Then  the  mere-wolf, 
when  she  came  to  the  bottom,  bore  the 
ring-prince  to  her  dwelling,  so  that  he 
could  nowise  wield  his  weapons,  brave 
though  he  was;  for  many  monsters  came 
at  him,  many  a  sea-beast  with  awful  tusks 
broke  his  battle-sark, — the  evil  creatures 
pressed  him  hard. 

Then  the  hero  saw  that  he  was  in  some 
dreadful  hall,  where  the  water  could  not 
harm  him  a  whit;  the  swift  clutch  of  the 
current  could  not  touch  him,  because  of  the 
roofed  hall.  He  saw  a  fire-light,  a  gleam- 
ing flame  brightly  shining.  Then  the  hero 
got  sight  of  the  mighty  mere-woman — the 
she-wolf  of  the  deep.  He  made  at  her 
fiercely  with  his  war-sword.  His  hand 
did  not  refuse  the  blow,  so  that  the  ringed 
blade  sang  out  a  greedy  war-song  on  her 
head.  But  the  stranger  found  that  the 
gleaming  sword  would  make  no  wound, 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


would  do  no  harm  to  her  life;  so  the  blade 
failed  the  prince  in  his  need.  It  had  afore- 
time endured  many  a  hard  fight,  had  often 
cleft  the  helmet  and  the  byrnie  of  the 
doomed;  this  was  the  first  time  that  the 
precious  treasure  ever  failed  of  its  glory. 
Yet  the  kinsman  of  Hygelac,  heedful  of 
great  deeds,  was  steadfast  of  purpose,  not 
faltering  in  courage.  Then  the  angry 
warrior  threw  from  him  the  carved  sword, 
strong  and  steel-edged,  studded  with 
jewels,  and  it  lay  upon  the  ground.  He 
trusted  to  his  strength,  to  the  mighty  grip 
of  his  hand.  So  must  a  brave  man  do 
when  he  thinketh  to  win  lasting  praise; — 
he  taketh  no  thought  for  his  life. 

Then  the  lord  of  the  War-Geats,  shrink- 
ing not  from  the  fight,  seized  Grendel's 
mother  by  the  shoulder,  and  full  of  wrath, 
the  valiant  in  battle  threw  his  deadly  foe 
so  that  she  fell  to  the  floor.  Speedily  she 
paid  him  his  reward  again  with  fierce 
grapplings  and  clutched  at  him,  and  being 
exhausted,  he  stumbled  and  fell,  he, — the 
champion,  strongest  of  warriors.  Then 
she  leaped  and  sat  upon  him,  and  drew 
her  dagger,  broad  and  brown-edged,  to 
avenge  her  son,  her  only  offspring.  But 
on  his  shoulder  lay  his  woven  coat  of  mail; 
it  saved  his  life,  barring  the  entrance 
against  point  and  blade.  Thus  the  son  of 
Ecgtheow,  the  chief  of  the  Geats,  would 
have  perished  'neath  the  sea-bottom,  had 
not  his  battle-byrnie,  his  hard  war-corslet, 
been  of  aid  to  him,  and  Holy  God,  the 
wise  Lord,  brought  victory  to  pass,  the 
King  of  heaven  easily  adjudging  it  aright. 
Thereafter  he  stood  up  again. 

XXIII 

BEOWULF  lays  hold  upon  a  giant  sword  and  slays 
the  evil  beast.  He  finds  Grendel's  dead  body 
and  cuts  off  the  head,  an:i  swims  up  to  his 
thanes  upon  the  shore.  They  go  back  to 
Heorot. 

THEN  he  saw  among  the  armor  a  vic- 
torious blade,  an  old  sword  of  the  giant- 
age,  keen-edged,  the  glory  of  warriors; 
it  was  the  choicest  of  weapons, — save  that 
it  was  larger  than  any  other  man  was  able 
to  carry  into  battle, — good,  and  splendidly 


wrought,  for  it  was  the  work  of  the  giants. 
And  the  warrior  of  the  Scyldings  seized 
the  belted  hilt;  savage  and  angry,  he  drew 
forth  the  ring-sword,  and,  hopeless  of  life, 
smote  so  fiercely  that  the  hard  sword 
caught  her  by  the  neck,  breaking  the  ring- 
bones; the  blade  drove  right  through 
her  doomed  body,  and  she  sank  upon  the 
floor.  The  sword  was  bloody;  the  hero 
exulted  in  his  deed. 

The  flame  burst  forth;  light  filled  the 
place,  even  as  when  the  candle  of  heaven 
is  shining  brightly  from  the  sky.  He 
gazed  about  the  place  and  turned  him  to 
the  wall;  the  thane  of  Hygelac,  angry  and 
resolute,  lifted  the  great  weapon  by  the 
hilt.  The  blade  was  not  worthless  to  the 
warrior,  for  he  wished  to  repay  Grendel 
straightway  for  the  many  attacks  which  he 
had  made  upon  the  West-Danes, — oftener 
far  than  once, — what  time  he  slew  Hroth- 
gar's  hearth-companions  in  their  slumber 
and  devoured  fifteen  of  the  sleeping  Danes 
and  carried  off  as  many  more,  a  horrid 
prey.  The  fierce  warrior  had  given  him 
his  reward,  insomuch  that  he  now  saw 
Grendel  lying  lifeless  in  his  resting-place, 
spent  with  his  fight,  so  deadly  had  the 
combat  been  for  him  in  Heorot.  The 
body  bounded  far  when  it  suffered  a  blow 
after  death,  a  mighty  sword-stroke.  Thus 
he  smote  off  the  head. 

Soon  the  prudent  men  who  were  watch- 
ing the  mere  with  Hrothgar  saw  that  the 
surging  waves  were  all  troubled,  and  the 
water  mingled  with  blood.  The  old  men, 
white-haired,  talked  together  of  the  hero, 
how  they  thought  that  the  prince  would 
never  come  again  to  their  great  lord,  exult- 
ant in  victory;  for  many  believed  that  the 
sea-wolf  had  rent  him  in  pieces. 

Then  came  the  ninth  hour  of  the  day. 
The  bold  Scyldings  left  the  cliff,  the  boun- 
teous friend  of  men  departed  to  his  home. 
But  the  strangers  sat  there,  sick  at  heart, 
and  gazed  upon  the  mere;  they  longed  but 
did  not  ever  think  to  see  their  own  dear 
lord  again. 

Meanwhile  the  sword,  that  war-blade, 
being  drenched  with  blood,  began  to  waste 
away  in  icicles  of  steel;  it  melted  won- 
drously  away,  like  ice  when  the  Father 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


looseneth  the  frost,  unwindeth  the  ropes 
that  bind  the  waves;  He  who  ruleth  the 
times  and  seasons,  He  is  a  God  of  right- 
eousness. The  lord  of  the  Weder-Geats  took 
no  treasure  from  that  hall,  although  he  saw 
much  there,  none  save  the  head,  and  the 
hilt  bright  with  gold;  the  blade  had  mel- 
ted, the  graven  sword  had  burned  away, 
so  hot  had  been  the  blood,  so  venomous 
the  strange  spirit  that  had  perished  there. 

Soon  he  was  swimming  off,  he  who  had 
survived  the  onset  of  his  foes;  he  dived  up 
through  the  water.  The  surging  waves 
were  cleansed,  the  wide  expanse  where  that 
strange  spirit  had  laid  down  her  life  and 
the  fleeting  days  of  this  world. 

And  the  defence  of  seamen  came  to  land, 
stoutly  swimming;  he  rejoiced  in  his  sea- 
spoil,  the  great  burden  that  he  bore  with 
him.  And  his  valiant  band  of  thanes 
went  unto  him,  giving  thanks  to  God;  they 
rejoiced  in  their  chief,  for  that  they  could 
see  him  safe  and  sound.  Then  they 


quickly  loosed  helm  and  byrnie  from  the 
valiant  man.  The  mere  grew  calm,  but 
the  water  'neath  the  clouds  was  discolored 
with  the  gore  of  battle. 

They  set  forth  along  the  foot-path  glad 
at  heart;  the  men,  kingly  bold,  measured 
the  earth-ways,  the  well-known  roads. 
They  bore  away  the  head  from  the  sea- 
cliff, — a  hard  task  for  all  those  men,  great- 
hearted as  they  were;  four  of  them  must 
needs  bear  with  toil  that  head  of  Grendel 
upon  a  spear  to  the  gold-hall.  And  forth- 
with the  fourteen  Geats,  bold  and  warlike, 
came  to  the  hall,  and  their  brave  lord  in 
their  midst  trod  the  meadows.  And  the 
chief  of  the  thanes,  the  valiant  man 
crowned  with  glory,  the  warrior  brave  in 
battle,  went  in  to  greet  Hrothgar.  And 
Grendel's  head  was  borne  by  the  hair 
into  the  hall  where  the  men  were  drinking, 
— an  awful  sight  for  the  heroes  and  the 
lady  too.  The  people  gazed  upon  that 
wondrous  spectacle. 


THE  SONG  OF  ROLAND 

The  heroic  tale  of  the  rearguard  action  of  Roland,  Oliver,  and  their  following,  against  the  Saracen 
hordes  in  the  pass  of  Roncesvalles,  the  blowing  of  Roland's  mighty  horn  the  sound  of  which  penetrated  to 
the  host  of  Charlemagne  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains,  the  death  of  the  Paladins,  and  the  vengeance 
of  their  master,  grew  out  of  legendary  stories,  or  sagas,  of  the  early  struggles  by  the  Frankish  peoples 
against  the  onrush  of  the  Moors  from  the  south  which  finally  saved  Europe  from  Mahommedan  domina- 
tion. This  is  the  heroic  background  of  the  history  of  the  nation  of  France.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that 
at  the  Battle  of  Hastings,  in  1066,  Taillefer,  the  Norman  minstrel,  marched  ahead  of  the  invading  army 
singing  the  lines  of  this  poem  as  a  kind  of  defiance  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  host.  On  another  occasion,  dur- 
ing the  dark  days  of  the  siege  of  Paris  in  1871,  an  attempt  was  made  to  revive  in  the  hearts  of  the  de- 
fenders of  the  city  the  martial  strains  of  their  national  epic  as  a  means  of  patriotic  endurance  to  the  end. 
The  translation  has  been  prepared  by  Percy  Hazen  Houston. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PEERS  AT 
RONCESVALLES 

OLIVER  feeling  that  his  wound  is  mortal, 
hasteneth  the  more  to  vengeance.  Full 
knightly  he  bears  himself  in  the  great  press, 
shivering  lances  and  crushing  shields,  and 
he  severeth  shoulders  and  arms  and  feet. 
Vull  well  might  he  who  beholdeth  now 
now  he  smote  down  the  Saracen  foe,  leav- 
ing body  piled  upon  body,  recall  great 
deeds  of  prowess.  Nor  forgetteth  he  the 
cry  of  Charles,  "Montjoie,"  and  he 
giveth  it  full  loud  and  clear.  Then  saith 
he  unto  Roland,  his  friend  and  peer, 


"Sir  comrade,  ride  thou  close  by,  for  full 
well  I  wot  that  to  our  great  dolor  shall  we 
be  divided." 

Then  Roland  looketh  upon  Oliver  full 
well  in  the  face.  Pale  he  is  and  ghastly, 
discolored  and  bloodless,  and  the  bright 
blood  floweth  from  his  corslet  gushing  to 
the  earth.  "  O  God ! "  cried  he.  "  I  know 
what  will  come  to  pass,  Sir  comrade,  for 
thy  valiance  hath  come  to  woe,  and  never 
more  shall  thy  peer  be  upon  this  earth. 
Oh,  sweet  France,  how  hast  thou  been 
overcome,  and  great  loss  from  this  will 
come  unto  the  Emperor."  And  when  he 
ceased,  he  swooned  upon  his  horse. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Now  Roland  has  swooned  upon  his 
horse,  and  Oliver  draweth  so  nigh  unto 
death  that  nor  here  nor  there,  far  nor  near, 
knoweth  he  a  mortal  man  from  another, 
and  when  his  comrade  presseth  close  unto 
him,  with  great  force  smiteth  he  his  helmet 
of  gold,  so  that  he  cleaveth  it  to  the  nasal, 
but  touching  not  the  head.  At  such  a 
blow  Roland  looketh  up  full  well  amazed 
and  asketh  with  great  gentleness,  "Sir 
comrade,  hast  thou  done  this  knowingly? 
For  wottest  thou  not  I  am  Roland  whom 
thou  lovest  full  well  and  in  no  way  hast 
thou  a  quarrel  with  me?"  Then  saith 
Oliver,  "Full  well  I  wot  it  is  thee  I  hear 
,  speak,  but  I  see  thee  not.  God  the  Lord 
seeth  thee.  Was  it  indeed  thee  I  smote? 
I  pray  thy  pardon!"  And  Roland  made 
reply:  "No  hurt  has  befallen  me  and  I 
forgive  thee  here  and  before  God."  At 
this  word  the  one  to  the  other  bent  with 
love,  and  in  this  wise  made  they  their 
farewell. 

Now  Oliver  felt  that  death  drew  nigh 
unto  him,  his  eyes  turned  within  his  head, 
nor  had  he  sight  nor  hearing  any  more. 
He  dismounted  from  his  horse  and  found 
for  his  head  a  pillow  upon  the  soft  earth. 
Aloud  he  uttered  his  mea  culpa,  the 
while  he  held  both  hands  joined  together 
up  to  heaven  and  prayed  God  that  he 
receive  him  into  Paradise;  nor  failed  he  to 
call  benedictions  upon  Charles  and  France 
and  his  comrade  Roland  first  before  all 
men.  Then  sank  his  body,  his  head  bent 
low,  and  he  lay  stretched  out  on  the 
ground.  Dead  was  he,  the  Count,  and 
there  was  an  end  to  his  stay  among  mortal 
men.  Full  sore  did  Roland  weep  and 
make  great  moan  for  the  baron,  and  never 
had  man  been  so  dolorous  upon  this  earth. 

When  Count  Roland  saw  his  friend 
how  that  he  lay  stretched  at  length  and  his 
face  to  the  ground,  full  tenderly  did  he 
make  moan:  "Sir  comrade,  thy  strength 
hath  brought  thee  woe!  Together  have 
we  been  many  long  years  and  days,  and 
well  I  wot  that  never  hast  thou  wronged 
me,  nor  have  I  in  any  way  betrayed  thee. 
Since  thou  art  dead,  woe  is  it  that  I  live." 
At  this  word  he  swooned  upon  his  horse 
whom  men  call  Veillantif,  nor  might  fall 


wherever  he  might  turn  so  fast  was  he  held 
by  his  stirrups  of  gold. 

Then  it  befell  when  Roland  was  re- 
stored from  his  swoon  and  his  senses  had 
returned  unto  him,  he  was  full  well  aware 
of  the  ruin  on  all  sides.  Dead  are  the 
Franks;  perished  are  they  all  save  the 
Archbishop  and  Walter  del  Hum  only, 
who  had  returned  from  the  mountain 
where  he  gave  battle  to  the  hosts  of  Spain, 
and  where  the  heathen  won  and  his  men 
all  were  overcome.  To  the  valley  he  came 
whether  he  would  or  no  and  then  called 
he  unto  Roland  that  he  would  seek  his  aid: 
"Oh!  gentle  Count,  brave  knight,  where 
art  thou?  Never  know  I  fear  when  thou 
art  nigh.  I  am  Walter,  the  same  who 
vanquished  Maelgut  nephew  of  Droon, 
the  ancient  and  white  of  hair.  I  was  wont 
to  follow  thee  in  deeds  of  chivalry.  Now 
my  lance  is  shivered  and  my  shield  pierced, 
and  my  coat  of  mail  is  battered  and 
hacked  and  in  my  body  are  eight  thrusts 
of  spear.  Full  well  I  wot  that  I  shall  die, 
but  dearly  have  I  sold  my  life."  Then 
did  Roland  become  aware  of  the  knight, 
and  spurring  his  steed  he  came  toward 
him. 

Of  great  sorrow  was  Roland  and  full 
of  anger,  so  that  in  the  thick  of  the  fray  he 
began  to  slay,  and  of  those  of  Spain  twenty 
did  he  smite  down,  and  Walter  six,  and 
the  Archbishop  to  the  number  of  five. 
Then  said  the  heathen:  "Fearful  and 
fell  are  these  men.  Heed  ye  well,  lords, 
that  they  make  not  their  escape  and  alive ! 
Fell  is  he  who  meeteth  them  not  and 
recreant  he  who  letteth  them  escape! 
Then  did  the  hue  and  cry  begin  again  so 
that  from  all  sides  came  they  back  into 
the  fray. 

A  most  noble  warrior  was  Count  Ro- 
land, Walter  del  Hum  a  valiant  cavalier, 
and  proved  and  well  tried  was  the  Arch- 
bishop, and  never  would  one  leave  the 
other.  Together  in  the  great  press  do 
they  smite  down  the  Paynims.  The 
Saracens  to  the  number  of  a  thousand 
leapt  from  their  steeds,  while  there  were 
still  forty  thousand  in  their  saddles;  yet 
truly  they  dared  not  approach  too  near 
but  hurled  their  lances  and  their  swords 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


73 


and  their  darts  and  sharp  javelins.  At 
the  first  onset  slew  they  Walter,  pierced 
the  Archbishop's  helm  and  brake  hauberk 
and  wounded  his  head,  so  that  he  was  rent 
in  the  body  by  four  lances.  Great  pity 
it  was  that  the  Archbishop  should  fall. 

When  Turpin  of  Rheims  felt  himself 
smitten  to  earth  and  his  body  pierced  by 
four  lances,  swiftly  uprose  the  baron. 
And  now  when  Roland  saw  him,  he  would 
go  to  his  aid,  but  he  cried:  "Not  yet  am  I 
overcome;  let  vassals  yield  only  with 
life."  Then  drew  he  Almace,  his  sword  of 
steel,  and  in  the  thick  of  the  press  he  lay 
about  him  more  than  a  thousand  strokes. 
In  sooth  it  was  said  by  Charles  the  Em- 
peror that  he  spared  none  and  there 
around  him  he  found  bodies  to  the  number 
of  four  hundred,  some  wounded  and  some 
struck  down  and  lying  on  the  plain,  some 
whose  heads  had  been  severed  from  their 
bodies.  So  saith  the  geste  and  Giles,  he 
who  was  on  the  field,  the  same  for  whom 
God  worked  miracles:  and  in  the  cell  at 
Laon  wrote  he  the  manuscript,  and  he 
who  wots  not  this  wots  nothing  at  all. 

Count  Roland  fought  full  nobly  nor  did 
he  heed  his  body  burning  and  bathed  in 
sweat  and  in  his  head  were  great  pain  and 
torture  since  when  he  first  sounded  his 
horn  and  his  temple  burst.  But  of 
Charles's  coming  was  he  fain  to  know  and 
he  drew  his  horn  of  ivory  and  fully  he 
sounded  it.  The  Emperor  stopped  full 
short  and  listened:  "Lords,"  quoth  he, 
"it  goeth  full  sore.  Full  hardly  shall 
Roland,  my  nephew,  escape  death;  I 
hear  his  horn  as  that  of  a  dying  man.  Let 
him  who  would  reach  the  field  ride  fast, 
and  sound  your  trumpet  everywhere 
throughout  the  host."  Sixty  thousand 
horns  resounded  on  high  and  echoed  in  the 
hills  and  rebounded  in  the  valleys;  so  that 
the  Paynims  heard  it;  it  is  no  jest,  and  one 
saith  to  another,  "  Charles  is  at  hand." 

Then  quoth  the  heathen:  "The  Em- 
peror cometh,  wherefore  the  men  of  France 
sound  their  trumpets,  and  if  Charles  come, 
no  hope  will  there  be  left  unto  us;  yet 
indeed  if  Roland  live,  we  must  fight  again 
and  Spain  our  country  have  we  lost." 
Four  hundred  do  battle  together,  and  the 


bravest  in  the  field,  and  full  fierce  and 
terrible  they  press  upon  Roland  that  he 
feels  it  greater  than  he  can  endure. 

Now  when  Count  Roland  saw  that  they 
drew  near,  such  strength  and  might  came 
unto  him  that  yield  would  he  not  while 
breath  remained  in  his  body.  He  sat 
upon  his  horse  whom  men  call  Veillantif 
and  urged  him  well  with  spurs  of  fine  gold 
so  that  they  rode  together  upon  the 
heathen  host,  and  the  Archbishop  Turpin 
rode  at  his  side.  Said  one  to  the  other, 
"Save  thyself,  friend.  The  trumpets  of 
France  have  we  heard,  and  Charles  the 
mighty  monarch  approacheth." 

Now  Count  Roland  had  never  loved 
coward  nor  the  proud  of  spirit  nor  evil  of 
heart  nor  knight  who  had  not  proved 
himself  true  vassal;  and  upon  Archbishop 
Turpin  he  cried:  "  Sir,  on  foot  art  thou,  and 
I  mounted  on  horseback,  and  for  thy  love 
therefore  will  I  dismount  and  together 
will  we  share  good  and  ill,  nor  will  I  leave 
thee  for  any  living  man.  Thus  will  we 
return  their  assault  and  shall  no  sword 
smite  better  than  Durendal."  "Base 
is  he,"  quoth  the  Archbishop,  "who 
faileth  to  smite,  for  that  Charles  cometh 
to  avenge  us  so  well."  And  the  heathen 
cried:  "So  were  we  born  to  ill.  Fearful 
is  this  day  that  has  dawned,  for  that  we 
have  lost  our  lords  and  peers,  and  Charles 
the  great  baron  cometh  with  his  mighty 
host.  We  hear  the  trumpets  of  the  host 
of  France,  and  full  loud  is  the  cry  of 
'Montjoie.'  So  great  is  the  might  of 
Roland  that  he  cannot  be  vanquished  by 
any  man;  therefore  let  us  fling  our  mis- 
siles against  him  and  fall  back."  Where- 
upon they  hurled  their  darts  and  their 
spears  and  feathered  missiles.  Roland's 
buckler  was  battered  and  pierced  ind  his 
mail  ripped  and  broken,  yet  did  they  not 
enter  into  his  body.  Thirty  times  did 
they  pierce  Veillantif,  and  he  fell  dead 
from  under  the  Count.  Then  did  the 
Paynims  flee  and  leave  him,  and  Count 
Roland  remained  on  foot  alone. 

And  the  Paynims  fled  in  great  rage  and 
fear,  and  toward  Spain  returned  they 
as  they  had  come.  Not  now  could  Count 
Roland  pursue,  for  that  he  had  lost  his 


74 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


steed  Veillantif,  and  whether  he  would  or 
no  he  had  fallen  on  his  feet.  Then  went 
he  to  see  if  perchance  he  might  aid  the 
Archbishop.  He  unlaced  his  helmet  of 
gold  from  his  head,  and  undid  the  white 
corslet  over  his  breast  and  into  strips 
tore  his  undergarment  that  he  might 
staunch  the  great  wounds  of  the  Arch- 
bishop. Against  his  heart  he  held  him 
embraced  and  laid  him  full  tenderly  upon 
the  green  grass,  and  thus  gently  spake 
unto  him:  "Ah!  gentle  sir,  let  me  now 
take  farewell;  our  comrades  whom  we 
loved  so  greatly  have  gone  to  their  death, 
yet  it  behooves  us  not  that  we  should 
leave  them.  I  fain  would  seek  them  that 
I  may  lay  them  before  thee  in  seeming 
fashion."  Quoth  the  Archbishop:  "Go 
and  return  betimes  as  the  field  is  thine 
and  mine,  thanks  be  to  God." 

And  so  Roland  turned  away  and  alone 
went  he  over  the  field,  over  valley  and 
hill  did  he  search.  Gerin  found  he  and 
Gerier  that  was  his  comrade  in  arms,  and 
Berangier  and  Otho,  and  Anseis  and 
Samson,  and  he  found  Gerard-the-Old 
of  Rousillon.  One  by  one  he  bore  the 
barons  and  laid  them  before  the  Arch- 
bishop, and  in  a  row  before  his  knees  he 
put  them.  The  Archbishop  could  not  but 
weep  as  he  raised  his  hand  in  benediction. 
Then  said  he:  "Alas  for  you,  my  lord! 
And  may  God  the  glorious  receive  you 
into  his  mercy!  In  Paradise  may  you 
repose  on  blessed  flowers!  My  own  death 
cometh  and  it  giveth  me  great  anguish 
that  I  may  never  see  my  Emperor  more." 

Once  again  did  Roland  return  that  he 
might  search  the  field.  Oliver  his  com- 
rade he  found  and  to  his  heart  he  pressed 
him.  With  what  strength  there  yet  re- 
mained to  him  he  bore  him  to  the  Arch- 
bishop; upon  a  buckler  he  laid  him  beside 
the  rest,  and  the  Archbishop  assoiled  and 
blessed  them,  and  his  grief  waxed  strong 
and  he  had  great  pity.  And  then  said 
Roland:  "Oliver,  fair  comrade,  son  wert 
thou  to  the  noble  Duke  Renier,  he  who 
held  the  marches  of  Genoa  and  Rivier; 
and  there  was  no  better  cavalier  for  the 
breaking  of  spears  or  piercing  of  shields 
or  for  the  smiting  or  the  putting  to  flight 


of  the  proud  or  for  the  giving  of  counsel 
to  the  good." 

When  Count  Roland  saw  his  peers 
and  Oliver  whom  he  so  loved  lying  dead, 
he  was  filled  with  great  dolor  and  his  face 
was  discolored  from  much  weeping;  and 
so  great  was  his  grief  that  no  longer  was 
he  able  to  stand  upon  his  feet,  whether 
he  would  or  no  he  fell  to  the  ground  in  a 
swoon.  "Alas  for  thee,  baron,"  cried  the 
Archbishop. 

When  the  Archbishop  saw  how  that 
Roland  had  swooned,  he  felt  the  greatest 
dolor  that  ever  he  had  felt  before.  Then 
did  he  extend  his  hand  and  grasp  the  horn 
that  was  of  ivory.  In  the  valley  was  a 
spring,  and  he  would  fain  go  thither  that 
he  might  bring  water  unto  Roland;  and 
with  a  great  effort  was  he  able  to  rise 
and  set  off  full  slow  and  falteringly,  but 
such  weakness  came  upon  him  that  he 
could  go  no  farther.  So  much  was  the 
blood  that  he  had  lost  that  no  strength 
had  he  left;  wherefore  when  he  had  gone 
but  the  distance  of  a  rood  his  heart  failed 
him,  so  that  he  fell  with  his  face  to  the 
ground  and  mortal  anguish  seized  upon 
him. 

Count  Roland,  when  he  had  regained 
his  senses,  with  great  effort  raised  himself 
and  looked  about  him;  upon  the  green 
grass  beyond  his  companions  saw  he  the 
noble  baron,  the  Archbishop,  whom  God 
ordained  in  his  name,  sink  upon  the  earth. 
He  looked  up  to  Heaven,  extended  his 
two  hands,  and  uttered  his  mea  culpa  and 
prayed  God  that  he  would  indeed  grant 
him  Paradise.  Turpin  died  and  in  the 
service  of  Charles,  and  wit  ye  well  that 
both  in  battles  and  by  fair  sermons  did  he 
never  cease  to  do  battle  with  the  heathen. 
God  grant  him  his  benediction ! 

Count  Roland  saw  the  Archbishop  upon 
the  ground  and  that  his  bowels  burst 
from  his  body  and  his  brains  gushed  from 
his  forehead.  Upon  his  breast  did  Roland 
cross  his  white  hands  and  then,  according 
to  the  custom  of  his  country,  full  pitifully 
did  he  make  moan:  "Ah!  gentle  lord, 
knight  of  a  noble  race,  to  the  glorious 
King  of  Heaven  do  I  recommend  thee  to- 
day, and  well  I  wot  that  never  more  will 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


75 


man  serve  Him  as  thou  hast  served  Him 
nor  more  willingly.  Not  since  the  time 
of  the  Apostles  hath  there  been  such  a 
prophet  to  uphold  the  law  of  the  Chris- 
tians and  to  draw  men  unto  it.  Hence- 
forth may  thy  soul  wot  not  of  grief  or 
torment  and  may  the  Gate  of  Paradise 
be  opened  unto  it. 

Roland  felt  that  his  death  drew  nigh; 
his  brain  oozed  forth  by  either  ear;  there- 
fore did  he  pray  for  his  peers  that  God 
might  call  them,  and  for  himself  did  he 
implore  the  angel  Gabriel.  That  he  might 
be  reproached  for  naught,  did  he  with 
one  hand  grasp  the  horn  of  ivory  and 
with  the  other  Durendal  his  sword.  As 
far  as  the  shot  of  a  crossbow  in  fallow 
land  did  he  advance  toward  Spain.  There 
were  four  steps  of  marble  near  unto  the 
crest  of  a  hillock,  under  two  fair  trees,  and 
there  it  is  that  he  fell  back  upon  the  grass 
as  his  death  approached. 

Now  where  Count  Roland  had  swooned 
the  mountains  were  high  and  full  tall  the 
trees,  and  there  were  four  steps  of  glisten- 
ing marble.  And  in  the  meanwhile  a 
Saracen  had  been  watching  him,  and  he 
it  was  who  feigned  death  and  lay  among 
the  others.  He  had  smeared  his  body 
with  blood  and  his  visage.  Handsome 
was  he  and  full  strong  and  of  great  courage 
so  that  in  his  pride  he  would  do  a  deed  of 
mortal  folly,  and  he  rose  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  body  and  the  arms  of  Roland  and 
cried:  "The  nephew  of  Charles  is  van- 
quished and  this  sword  will  I  carry  into 
Arabia."  Forthwith  he  seized  it  and 
then  lay  hold  of  the  beard  of  Roland. 
Then  was  the  Count  roused  by  the  pain  so 
that  his  senses  returned  unto  him. 

Now  no  sooner  had  Roland  felt  that 
his  sword  had  been  taken  from  him  than 
he  opened  his  eyes  and  spake:  "Well  I 
wot  that  thou  art  not  of  ours."  With  the 
horn  of  ivory  which  he  held  and  which  he 
would  never  let  go,  did  he  smite  the  foe 
full  upon  the  helmet.  The  horn,  adorned 
with  precious  gems  and  gold,  crushed 
through  steel  and  head  and  bones,  and 
made  the  eyes  that  they  fell  from  his  head, 
and  threw  him  back  dead  at  Roland's  fret. 
Then  cried  he:  "  Vile  man,  who  hath  made 


thee  so  bold  that  thou  wouldst  lay  hand 
upon  me,  whether  right  or  no?  No  man 
shall  hear  it  said  but  shall  deem  thee  mad. 
Now  is  my  horn  of  ivory  broken,  and  the 
crystal  and  the  gold  have  fallen  from  it." 

Roland  felt  that  death  pressed  closely 
upon  him  and  he  rose  to  his  feet  as  quickly 
as  he  might;  his  countenance  had  lost 
all  its  color.  He  grasped  his  sword 
Durendal  all  unsheathed,  and  seeing  a 
brown  rock  before  him,  ten  blows  did  he 
smite  it,  so  great  was  his  anger  and 
chagrin.  Then  did  the  steel  grate  but 
it  broke  not  nor  splintered.  "Blessed 
Mary,"  cried  the  Count,  "aid  me  now! 
Ah!  Durendal,  my  good  sword,  alack 
for  thee!  For  now  I  die  and  no  more 
shall  have  to  do  with  thee;  with  thee  have 
I  won  many  battles  and  conquered  broad 
lands  the  which  are  held  by  Charles  of  the 
white  beard!  Whilst  I  live  shalt  thou  not 
be  borne  away,  that  thou  mayest  never 
belong  to  him  who  would  flee  before  an- 
other. How  brave  a  warrior  hath  borne 
thee  for  many  a  long  day!  Never  more1 
will  there  be  another  and  such  as  he  in 
France,  the  blessed  land." 

Roland  struck  upon  the  hard  rock,  and 
then  did  the  steel  grate  but  brake  not  nor 
splintered.  Now  when  the  count  saw 
that  he  might  not  break  his  sword,  did  he 
make  moan  unto  himself:  "Ah,  Durendal, 
how  clear  and  white  thou  art,  how  thou 
dost  flash  and  glisten  in  the  sun !  Charles 
was  in  Maurienne  valley,  and  from  Heaven 
God  bade  him  by  his  angel  that  he  give 
thee  unto  a  Count  and  chieftain  of  his 
host,  and  then  did  the  gentle  king,  the 
most  noble  warrior,  gird  it  on  me.  With 
thee  did  I  conquer  Anjou  and  Brittany, 
Poitou  and  Maine,  with  thee  I  gained 
Normandy  the  free,  Provence  and  Aqui- 
taine,  and  Lombardy  and  the  whole  of 
Romagna;  with  thee  I  overcame  Bavaria 
and  all  of  Flanders  and  Bulgaria  and  Po- 
land, Constantinople  of  which  he  holds  the 
fealty,  and  Saxony,  of  which  he  is  sov- 
ereign; for  him  did  I  conquer  Scotland  and 
Ireland  and  England,  the  which  he  holds 
as  his  own  domain.  How  many  countries, 
how  many  lands,  have  I  won,  that  Charles 
of  the  white  beard  might  hold  them  in  fee! 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


For  this  sword  do  I  suffer  sore  and  am  in 
great  torment;  sooner  would  I  die  than 
leave  it  to  the  heathen  host.  Lord  God, 
our  Father,  let  not  this  shame  come  unto 
France!" 


Now  Roland  feels  that  death  is  upon 
him  and  that  it  descends  from  his  head 
unto  his  heart,  and  he  couches  himself  close 
by  a  pine  tree  and  upon  the  green  grass, 
and  his  face  is  upon  the  ground.  Beneath 
him  does  he  place  his  horn  of  ivory  and 
his  sword,  and  turns  toward  Spain,  as 
if  he  would  fain  have  it  that  Charlemagne 
and  all  his  knights  might  tell  how  that 
the  noble  count  died  as  seeming  a  con- 
queror. His  sins  doth  he  confess  once 
and  again,  and  that  they  might  be  re- 
quited doth  he  offer  his  glove  unto  God. 

Roland  f  eeleth  that  his  hour  is  come,  and 
ha  lieth  on  the  crest  of  a  hill  and  turneth 
toward  Spain.  With  one  hand  doth  he 
beat  his  heart.  "God,  I  invoke  thy 
power  and  my  sins  do  I  confess,  great 
and  small,  which  I  have  committed  from 
the  hour  in  which  I  was  born  unto  this 
day  when  it  is  that  death  overtakes  me." 


Then  doth  he  stretch  out  unto  God  his 
right  glove,  and  the  angel  of  Heaven  de- 
scendeth  unto  him. 

Count  Roland  lay  under  a  pine  tree  and 
his  face  was  turned  toward  Spain.  Many 
things  would  he  fain  recall:  how  many 
lands  he  had  won  to  the  honor  of  sweet 
France,  the  men  of  his  lineage,  Charle- 
magne his  lord,  who  had  reared  him  hi  his 
hall,  and  the  men  of  France  of  whom  he 
had  great  love.  At  this  he  could  not  but 
weep  and  sigh,  but  forget  himself  did  he 
not,  and  he  composed  himself  and  prayed 
forgiveness  of  God.  "  God,  the  truth,  thou 
who  liest  not,  who  hast  raised  Lazarus 
from  the  dead,  who  hast  preserved  Daniel 
from  the  lions,  save  my  soul  from  all  the 
perils  brought  unto  it  by  the  sins  which  I 
have  committed  in  this  my  life!"  His 
right  glove  he  offered  unto  God,  and  the 
Holy  Saint  Gabriel  took  it  from  his  hand. 
His  head  fell  upon  his  arm,  and,  his  hands 
joined,  passed  he  unto  his  end.  Then  did 
God  send  unto  him  his  cherubim  and  Saint 
Michael  of  the  Peril  of  the  Sea,  and  Saint 
Gabriel  came  with  them  also,  and  together 
did  they  bear  the  soul  of  the  Count  into 
Paradise. 


THE  NIBELUNGENLIED* 

This  ancient  German  epic,  composed  in  its  present  form  probably  early  in  the  twelfth  century,  repre- 
sents the  accumulation  of  the  rich  store  of  legends  out  of  the  dim  mythological  past  which  accompanied 
the  vast  Germanic  migrations  that  finally  overwhelmed  the  Empire  of  Rome. 

The  poem  falls  into  two  parts.  The  first  relates  the  coming  of  the  young  warrior  Siegfried  with  the 
magic  hoard  of  the  Nibelungs  to  the  land  of  Burgundy  where  he  wins  the  lovely  Kriemhild  to  wife. 
But  before  the  wedding  he  aids  his  friend  Gunther  to  win  the  warrior-queen  Brunhild,  queen  of  Iceland, 
by  surpassing  her  in  three  games.  By  wearing  an  invisible  cloak  he  is  able  to  come  to  the  help  of  his 
friend  and  overcomes  the  warlike  queen,  taking  from  her  her  ring  and  girdle,  thus  rendering  her  power- 
less before  her  lord.  Later,  just  before  the  celebration  of  the  double  wedding,  the  two  queens  engage  in 
a  quarrel  over  a  question  of  precedence,  and  Kriemhild  boasts  her  possession  of  the  magic  ring  and  girdle. 
Brunhild,  maddened,  induces  Hagen  to  kill  Siegfried  after  she  has  learned  of  one  vulnerable  spot  on  the 
hero's  body  where  a  linden  leaf  had  fallen  as  he  was  bathing  in  the  blood  of  a  dragon. 

The  second  part,  which  may  be  entitled  Kriemhild 's  revenge,  is,  unlike  the  first  part  of  the  story, 
sombre  and  tragic.  For  thirteen  years  the  grief-stricken  queen  mourns  her  lord.  Then  for  thirteen 
years  she  lives  as  the  wife  of  Attila,  king  of  Hungary.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  invites  the  Burgun- 
dians  (who  are  now  called  Nibelungs)  to  a  great  festival  at  her  court.  In  spite  of  forebodings  they  go, 
never  to  return.  In  a  dramatic  conclusion,  the  whole  army  is  slain,  their  bodies  thrown  out  of  the 
window,  and  the  hall  set  on  fire.  Kriemhild  herself  cuts  off  Hagen's  head  with  Siegfried's  sword  Balming 
and  in  turn  is  slain  by  one  of  the  Hungarians.  Thus  perish  the  whole  race  of  Nibelungs,  and  with  them 
is  lost  forever  the  secret  of  their  great  hoard. 

*These  selections  are  from  "The  Fall  of  the  Niebelungs,"  translated  by  Margaret  Armour;  published  in  the  Everyman's 
Library  by  Messrs.  E.  P.  Button  and  Company,  New  York, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


77 


It  is  interesting  to  note  that  this  great  primitive  epic,  like  the  Song  of  Roland,  served  to  revive  the 
spirits  of  a  people  at  a  time  of  national  crisis.  This  time  it  was  the  revolt  of  liberal  Germans  from  the 
despotism  of  Napoleon,  inaugurating  the  liberal  movement  in  Germany  which  was  destined  to  be  crushed 
by  the  Prussian  king  when  he  rejected  the  resolutions  of  the  Diet  of  Frankfort  in  1848. 

The  most  notable  modern  treatment  of  this  story  is  to  be  found  in  Richard  Wagner's  operatic  cycle, 
"The  Ring  of  the  Nibelungs." 


EPISODES  OF  SIEGFRIED  AND  KRIEMHILD 

KRIEMHILD 

AND  lo!  the  fair  one  appeared,  like  the 
dawn  from  out  the  dark  clouds.  And  he 
that  had  borne  her  so  long  in  his  heart 
was  no  more  aweary,  for  the  beloved  one, 
his  sweet  lady,  stood  before  him  in  her 
beauty.  Bright  jewels  sparkled  on  her 
garments,  and  bright  was  the  rose-red  of 
her  hue,  and  all  they  that  saw  her  pro- 
claimed her  peerless  among  maidens. 

As  the  moon  excelleth  in  light  the  stars 
shining  clear  from  the  clouds,  so  stood  she, 
fair  before  the  other  women,  and  the  hearts 
of  the  warriors  were  uplifted.  The  cham- 
berlains made  way  for  her  through  them 
that  pressed  in  to  behold  her.  And  Sieg- 
fried joyed,  and  sorrowed  likewise,  for  he 
said  in  his  heart,  "How  should  I  woo  such 
as  thee?  Surely  it  was  a  vain  dream;  yet 
I  were  liefer  dead  than  a  stranger  to  thee." 

Thinking  thus  he  waxed  oft  white  and 
red;  yea,  graceful  and  proud  stood  the 
son  of  Sieglind,  goodliest  of  heroes  to  be- 
hold, as  he  were  drawn  on  parchment 
by  the  skill  of  a  cunning  master.  And  the 
knights  fell  back  as  the  escort  commanded, 
and  made  way  for  the  high-hearted  women, 
and  gazed  on  them  with  glad  eyes.  Many 
a  dame  of  high  degree  was  there. 

Said  bold  Sir  Gernot,  the  Burgundian, 
then,  "Gunther,  dear  brother,  unto  the' 
gentle  knight,  that  hath  done  thee  service, 
show  honor  now  before  thy  lieges.  Of  this 
counsel  I  shall  never  shame  me.  Bid 
Siegfried  go  before  my  sister,  that  the 
maiden  greet  him.  Let  her,  that  never 
greeted  knight,  go  toward  him.  For  this 
shall  advantage  us,  and  we  shall  win  the 
good  warrior  for  ours." 

Then  Gunther's  kinsmen  went  to  the 
knight  of  the  Netherland,  and  said  to  him, 
"The  king  bids  thee  to  the  court  that  his 
sister  may  greet  thee,  for  he  would  do 
thee  honor." 


It  rejoiced  Siegfried  that  he  was  to 
look  upon  Uta's  fair  child,  and  he  forgot 
his  sorrow. 

She  greeted  him  mild  and  maidenly,  and 
her  color  was  kindled  when  she  saw  before 
her  the  high-minded  man,  and  she  said, 
"Welcome,  Sir  Siegfried,  noble  knight  and 
good."  His  courage  rose  at  her  words, 
and  graceful,  as  beseemed  a  knight,  he 
bowed  himself  before  her  and  thanked  her. 
And  love  that  is  mighty  constrained  them, 
and  they  yearned  with  their  eyes  in  secret. 
I  know  not  whether,  from  his  great  love, 
the  youth  pressed  her  white  hand,  but 
two  love-desirous  hearts,  I  trow,  had  else 
done  amiss. 

Nevermore,  in  summer  or  in  May,  bore 
Siegfried  in  his  heart  such  high  joy,  as 
when  he  went  by  the  side  of  her  whom  he 
coveted  for  his  dear  one.  And  many  a 
knight  thought,  "Had  it  been  my  hap 
to  walk  with  her,  as  I  have  seen  him  do, 
or  to  lie  by  her  side,  certes,  I  had  suffered 
it  gladly!  Yet  never,  truly,  hath  warrior 
served  better  to  win  a  queen."  From 
what  land  soever  the  guests  came,  they 
were  ware  only  of  these  two.  And  she 
was  bidden  kiss  the  hero.  He  had  never 
had  like  joy  before  hi  this  world. 

Said  the  King  of  Denmark  then,  "By 
reason  of  this  high  greeting  many  good  men 
lie  low,  slain  by  the  hand  of  Siegfried,  the 
which  hath  been  proven  to  my  cost.  God 
grant  he  return  not  to  Denmark!" 

Then  they  ordered  to  make  way  for  fair 
Kriemhild.  Valiant  knights  in  stately 
array  escorted  her  to  the  minster,  where 
she  was  parted  from  Siegfried.  She  went 
thither  followed  by  her  maidens;  and  so 
rich  was  her  apparel  that  the  other  women, 
for  all  their  striving,  were  as  naught  beside 
her,  for  to  glad  the  eyes  of  heroes  she  was 
born. 

Scarce  could  Siegfried  tarry  till  they  had 
sung  mass,  he  yearned  so  to  thank  her 
for  his  gladness,  and  that  she  whom  he 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


bore  in  his  heart  had  inclined  her  desire 
toward  him,  even  as  his  was  to  her,  which 
was  meet. 

Now  when  Kriemhild  was  come  forth 
to  the  front  of  the  minster,  they  bade  the 
warrior  go  to  her  again,  and  the  damsel 
began  to  thank  him,  that  before  all  others 
he  had  done  valiantly.  And  she  said, 
"Now,  God  requite  thee,  Sir  Siegfried, 
for  they  tell  me  thou  hast  won  praise  and 
honor  from  all  knights." 

He  looked  on  the  maid  right  sweetly, 
and  he  said,  "I  will  not  cease  to  serve 
them.  Never,  while  I  live,  will  I  lay 
head  on  pillow,  till  I  have  brought  their 
desire  to  pass.  For  love  of  thee,  dear 
lady,  I  will  do  this." 

And  every  day  of  twelve,  in  the  sight 
of  all  the  people,  the  youth  walked  by 
the  side  of  the  maiden  as  she  went  to  the 
court.  So  they  showed  their  love  to  the 
knight. 


HOW  THE  QUEENS  QUARRELLED 

ONE  day,  before  vespers,  there  arose 
in  the  court  of  the  castle  a  mighty  din  of 
knights  that  tilted  for  pastime,  and  the 
folk  ran  to  see  them. 

The  queens  sat  together  there,  thinking 
each  on  a  doughty  warrior.  Then  said 
fair  Kriemhild,  "I  have  a  husband  of  such 
might  that  all  these  lands  might  well 
be  bis." 

But  Brunhild  answered,  "How  so?  If 
there  lived  none  other  save  thou  and  he, 
our  kingdom  might  haply  be  his,  but 
while  Gunther  is  alive  it  could  never  be." 

But  Kriemhild  said,  "See  him  there. 
How  he  surpasseth  the  other  knights,  as 
the  bright  moon  the  stars!  My  heart 
is  uplifted  with  cause." 

Whereupon  Brunhild  answered,  "How- 
so  valiant  thy  husband,  comely  and  fair, 
thy  brother  Gunther  excelleth  him,  for 
know  that  he  is  the  first  among  kings." 

But  Kriemhild  said,  "My  praise  was 
not  idle;  for  worshipful  is  my  husband  in 
many  things.  Trow  it,  Brunhild.  He  is, 
at  the  least,  thy  husband's  equal." 

"Mistake  me  not  hi  thine  anger,  Kriem- 


hild. Neither  is  my  word  idle;  for  they 
both  said,  when  I  saw  them  first,  and  the 
king  vanquished  me  in  the  sports,  and  on 
knightly  wise  won  my  love,  that  Siegfried 
was  his  man.  Wherefore  I  hold  him  for  a 
vassal,  since  I  heard  him  say  it." 

Then  Kriemhild  cried,  "Evil  were  my 
lot  if  that  were  true.  How  had  my 
brothers  given  me  to  a  vassal  to  wife? 
Prithee,  of  thy  courtesy,  cease  from  such 
discourse." 

"That  will  I  not,"  answered  Brunhild. 
"Thereby  should  I  lose  many  knights 
that,  with  him,  owe  us  homage." 

Whereat  fair  Kriemhild  waxed  very 
wroth.  "Lose  them  thou  must,  then,  for 
any  service  he  will  do  thee.  He  is  nobler 
even  than  Gunther,  my  noble  brother. 
Wherefore,  spare  me  thy  foolish  words. 
I  wonder,  since  he  is  thy  vassal,  and  thou 
art  so  much  mightier  than  we,  that  for  so 
long  time  he  hath  failed  to  pay  tribute. 
Of  a  truth  thine  arrogancy  irketh  me." 

"Thou  vauntest  thyself  too  high,"  cried 
the  queen;  "I  would  see  now  whether  thy 
body  be  holden  in  like  honor  with  mine." 

Both  the  women  were  angry. 

Kriemhild  answered,  "That  shalt  thou 
see  straightway.  Since  thou  hast  called 
Siegfried  thy  vassal,  the  knights  of  both 
kings  shall  see  this  day  whether  I  dare 
enter  the  minster  before  thee,  the  queen. 
For  I  would  have  thee  know  that  I  am 
noble  and  free,  and  that  my  husband  is 
of  more  worship  than  thine.  Nor  will  I 
be  chidden  by  thee.  To-day  thou  shalt 
see  thy  vassals  go  at  court  before  the 
Burgundian  knights,  and  me  more  honored 
than  any  queen  that  ever  wore  a  crown." 

Fierce  was  the  wrath  of  the  women. 

"If  thou  art  no  vassal,"  said  Brunhild, 
"  thou  and  thy  women  shall  walk  separate 
from  my  train  when  we  go  to  the  minster." 

And  Kriemhild  answered,  "Be  it  so." 

"Now  adorn  ye,  my  maidens,"  said 
Siegfried's  wife,  "that  I  be  not  shamed. 
If  ye  have  rich  apparel,  show  it  this  day. 
She  shall  take  back  what  her  mouth  hath 
spoken.'* 

She  needed  not  to  bid  twice;  they  sought 
out  their  richest  vesture,  and  dames  and 
damsels  were  soon  arrayed. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


79 


Then  the  wife  of  the  royal  host  went 
forth  with  her  attendants.  Fair  to  heart's 
desire  were  clad  Kriemhild  and  the  for<vy 
and  three  maidens  that  she  had  brought 
with  her  to  the  Rhine.  Bright  shone  the 
stuffs,  woven  in  Araby,  whereof  their 
robes  were  fashioned.  And  they  came  to 
the  minster,  where  Siegfried's  knights 
waited  for  them. 

The  folk  marvelled  much  to  see  the 
queens  apart,  and  going  not  together  as 
afore.  Many  a  warrior  was  to  rue  it. 

Gunther's  wife  stood  before  the  minster, 
and  the  knights  dallied  in  converse  with 
the  women,  till  that  Kriemhild  came  up 
with  her  meiny.  All  that  noble  maidens 
had  ever  worn  was  but  as  a  wind  to  what 
these  had  on.  So  rich  was  Kriemhild 
that  thirty  king's  wives  together  had  not 
been  as  gorgeous  as  she  was.  None  could 
deny,  though  they  had  wished  it,  that  the 
apparel  Kriemhild's  maidens  wore  that 
day  was  the  richest  they  had  ever  seen. 
Kriemhild  did  this  on  purpose  to  anger 
Brunhild. 

So  they  met  before  the  minster.  And 
Brunhild,  with  deadly  spite,  cried  out  to 
Kriemhild  to  stand  still.  "Before  the 
queen  shall  no  vassal  go." 

Out  then  spake  Kriemhild,  for  she  was 
wroth.  "Better  hadst  thou  held  thy 
peace.  Thou  hast  shamed  thine  own 
body.  How  should  the  leman  of  a  vassal 
become  a  king's  wife?" 

"Whom  namest  thou  leman?"  cried  the 
queen. 

"Even  thee,"  answered  Kriemhild. 
"  For  it  was  Siegfried  my  husband,  and  not 
my  brother,  that  won  thee  first.  Where 
were  thy  senses?  It  was  surely  ill  done 
to  favor  a  vassal  so.  Reproaches  from 
thee  are  much  amiss." 

"Verily,"  cried  Brunhild.  "Gunther 
shall  hear  of  it." 

"  What  is  that  to  me?  Thine  arrogancy 
hath  deceived  thee.  Thou  hast  called 
me  thy  vassal.  Know  now  of  a  truth  it 
hath  irked  me,  and  I  am  thine  enemy 
evermore." 

Then  Brunhild  began  to  weep,  and 
Kriemhild  tarried  not  longer,  but  went 
with  her  attendants  into  the  minster 


before  the  king's  wife.     There  was  deadly 
hate,  and  bright  eyes  grew  wet  and  dim. 

Whether  they  prayed  or  sang,  the  ser- 
vice seemed  too  long  to  Brunhild,  for  hrr 
heart  and  her  mind  were  troubled,  the 
which  many  a  bold  and  good  man  paid 
for  afterward. 

Brunhild  stopped  before  the  minster 
with  her  women,  for  she  thought,  "Kriem- 
hild, the  foul-mouthed  woman,  shall  tell 
me  further  whereof  she  so  loud  accuseth 
me.  If  he  hath  boasted  of  this  thing,  he 
shall  answer  for  it  with  his  life." 

Then  Kriemhild  with  her  knights  came 
forth,  and  Brunhild  began,  "Stop!  thou 
hast  called  me  a  wanton  and  shalt  prove 
it,  for  know  that  thy  words  irk  me  sore." 

Said  Kriemhild,  "Let  me  pass.  With 
this  gold  that  I  have  on  my  hand  I  can 
prove  it.  Siegfried  brought  it  when  he 
came  from  thee." 

It  was  a  heavy  day  for  Brunhild.  She 
said,  "That  gold  so  precious  was  stolen 
from  me,  and  hath  been  hidden  these 
many  years.  Now  I  know  who  hath 
taken  it."  Both  the  women  were  furious. 

"I  am  no  thief,"  cried  Kriemhild. 
"Hadst  thou  prized  thine  honor  thou 
hadst  held  thy  peace,  for,  with  this  girdle 
round  my  waist,  I  can  prove  my  word,  and 
that  Siegfried  was  verily  thy  leman." 
She  wore  a  girdle  of  silk  of  Nineveh,  goodly 
enow,  and  worked  with  precious  stones. 

When  Brunhild  saw  it  she  started  to 
weep.  And  soon  Gunther  knew  it,  and 
all  his  men,  for  the  queen  cried,  "Bring 
hither  the  King  of  Rhineland;  I  would 
tell  him  how  his  sister  hath  mocked  me, 
and  sayeth  openly  that  I  be  Siegfried's 
leman." 

The  king  came  with  his  warriors,  and, 
when  he  saw  that  his  dear  one  wept,  he 
spake  kindly,  "What  aileth  thee,  dear 
wife?" 

She  answered,  "Shamed  must  I  stand, 
for  thy  sister  would  part  me  from  mine 
honor?  I  make  my  plaint  to  thee.  She 
proclaimeth  aloud  that  Siegfried  hath  had 
me  to  his  leman." 

Gunther  answered,  "Evilly  hath  she 
done." 

"She  weareth  here  a  girdle  that  I  have 


So 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURP: 


long  lost,  and  my  red  gold.  Woe  is  me 
that  ever  I  was  born!  If  thou  clearest 
me  not  from  this  shame,  I  will  never  love 
thee  more." 

Said  Gunther,  "Bid  him  hither,  that  he 
confess  whether  he  hath  boasted  of  this, 
or  no." 

They  summoned  Siegfried,  who,  when 
he  saw  their  anger  and  knew  not  the  cause, 
spake  quickly,  "Why  weep  these  women? 
Tell  me  straight;  and  wherefore  am  I 
summoned?" 

Whereto  Gunther  answered,  "Right 
vexed  am  I.  Brunhild,  my  wife,  telleth 
me  here  that  thou  hast  boasted  thou  wert 
her  leman.  Kriemhild  declareth  this. 
;Hast  thou  done  it,  0  knight?" 

Siegfried  answered,  "Not  I.  If  she 
hath  said  so,  I  will  rest  not  till  she  repent 
jit.  I  swear  with  a  high  oath,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  all  thy  knights,  that  I  said  not  this 
thing." 

The  king  of  the  Rhine  made  answer, 
"So  be  it.  If  thou  swear  the  oath  here, 
I  will  acquit  thee  of  the  falsehood." 
Then  the  Burgundians  stood  round  in  a 
ring,  and  Siegfried  swore  it  with  his  hand; 
whereupon  the  great  king  said,  "Verily, 
I  hold  thee  guiltless,  nor  lay  to  thy  charge 
the  word  my  sister  imputeth  to  thee." 

Said  Siegfried  further,  "If  she  rejoice th 
to  have  troubled  thy  fair  wife,  I  am  grieved 
beyond  measure."  The  knights  glanced 
at  each  other. 

"Women  must  be  taught  to  bridle  their 
tongues.  Forbid  proud  speech  to  thy 
wife:  I  will  do  the  like  to  mine.  Such 
bitterness  and  pride  are  a  shame." 

Angry  words  have  divided  many  women. 
Brunhild  made  such  dole,  that  Gunther's 
men  had  pity  on  her.  And  Hagen  of 
Trony  went  to  her  and  asked  what  ailed 
her,  for  he  found  her  weeping.  She  told 
him  the  tale,  and  he  sware  straightway 
that  Kriemhild's  husband  should  pay  for 
it,  or  never  would  Hagen  be  glad  again. 

While  they  talked  together,  Ortwin 
and  Gernot  came  up,  and  the  warriors 
counselled  Siegfried's  death.  But  when 
Giselher,  Uta's  fair  child,  drew  nigh  and 
heard  them,  he  spake  out  with  true  heart, 
"Alack,  good  knights,  what  would  ye  do? 


How  hath  Siegfried  deserved  such  hate 
that  he  should  lose  his  life?  A  woman 
is  lightly  angered." 

"Shall  we  rear  bastards?"  cried  Hagen. 
"That  were  small  honor  to  good  knights. 
I  will  avenge  on  him  the  boast  that  he 
hath  made,  or  I  will  die." 

But  the  king  himself  said,  "Good,  and 
not  evil,  hath  he  done  to  us.  Let  him  live. 
Wherefore  should  I  hate  the  knight?  He 
hath  ever  been  true  to  me." 

But  Ortwin  of  Metz  said,  "His  great 
strength  shall  not  avail  him.  Allow, 
O  Lord,  that  I  challenge  him  to  his 
death."  So,  without  cause,  they  banded 
against  him.  Yet  none  had  urged  it 
further,  had  not  Hagen  tempted  Gunther 
every  day,  saying,  that  if  Siegfried  lived 
not,  many  kings'  lands  were  subject  to 
him. 

Whereat  the  warrior  began  to  grieve. 

Meanwhile  they  let  the  matter  lie,  and 
returned  to  the  tourney.  Ha!  what  stark 
spears  they  brake  before  Kriemhild, 
atween  the  minster  and  the  palace;  but 
Gunther's  men  were  wroth. 

Then  said  the  king,  "Give  over  this 
deadly  hate.  For  our  weal  and  honor  he 
was  born.  Thereto  the  man  is  so  won- 
derly  stark  and  grim,  that,  if  he  were 
ware  of  this,  none  durst  stand  against 
him." 

"Not  so,"  said  Hagen.  "Assure  thee 
on  that  score.  For  I  will  contrive  secretly 
that  he  pay  for  Brunhild's  weeping. 
Hagen  is  his  foe  evermore." 

But  said  Gunther,  "How  meanest 
thou?" 

And  Hagen  answered,  "On  this  wise. 
Men  that  none  here  knoweth  shall  ride  as 
envoys  into  this  land  and  declare  war. 
Whereupon  thou  wilt  say  before  thy  guests 
that  thou  must  to  battle  with  thy  liege- 
men. When  thou  hast  done  this,  he  will 
promise  to  help  thee.  Then  he  shall  die, 
after  I  have  learnt  a  certain  thing  from  his 
wife." 

Evilly  the  king  followed  Hagen,  and 
they  plotted  black  treason  against  the 
chosen  knight,  without  any  suspecting  it. 
So,  through  the  quarrel  of  two  women,  died 
many  warriors. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


HOW  SIEGFRIED  WAS   BETRAYED 

ON  THE  fourth  morning,  thirty  and  two 
men  were  seen  riding  to  the  court.  They 
brought  word  to  Gunther  that  war  was 
declared  against  him.  The  women  were 
woeful  when  they  heard  this  lie. 

The  envoys  won  leave  to  go  in  to  the 
king,  and  they  said  they  were  Ludger's 
men,  that  Siegfried's  hand  had  overcome 
in  battle  and  brought  captive  into  Gun- 
ther's  land. 

The  king  greeted  them,  and  bade  them 
sit,  but  one  of  them  said,  "Let  us  stand, 
till  that  we  have  declared  the  message 
wherewith  we  are  charged  to  thee.  Know 
that  thou  hast  to  thy  foeman  many  a 
mother's  son.  Ludger  and  Ludgast,  whom 
thou  hast  aforetime  evilly  entreated,  ride 
hither  to  make  war  against  thee  in  this 
land." 

The  king  fell  in  a  rage,  as  if  he  had  known 
naught  thereof.  Then  they  gave  the 
false  messengers  good  lodging.  How  could 
Siegfried  or  any  other  guess  their  treason, 
whereby,  or  all  was  done,  they  themselves 
perished? 

The  king  went  whispering  up  and  down 
with  his  friends.  Hagen  of  Trony  gave 
him  no  peace.  Many  of  the  knights  were 
fain  to  let  it  drop,  but  Hagen  would  not 
be  turned  from  it. 

On  a  day  that  Siegfried  found  them 
whispering,  he  asked  them,  "Wherefore 
are  the  king  and  his  men  so  sorrowful? 
If  any  hath  done  aught  to  their  hurt,  I  will 
stand  by  them  to  avenge  it." 

Gunther  answered,  "I  grieve  not  with- 
out cause.  Ludgast  and  Ludger  ride 
hither  to  war  against  me  in  my  land." 

Then  said  the  bold  knight,  "Siegfried's 
arm  will  withstand  them  on  such  wise, 
that  ye  shall  all  come  off  with  honor.  I 
will  do  to  these  warriors  even  as  I  did  afore- 
time. Waste  will  be  their  lands  and  their 
castles,  or  I  be  done.  I  pledge  my  head 
thereto.  Thou  and  thy  men  shall  tarry 
here  at  home,  and  I  will  ride  forth  with 
my  knights  that  I  have  with  me.  I  serve 
thee  gladly,  and  will  prove  it.  Doubt 
not  that  thy  foemen  shall  suffer  scathe 
at  my  hand." 


"These  be  good  words,"  answered  the 
king,  as  he  were  truly  glad,  and  craftily 
the  false  man  bowed  low. 

Then  said  Siegfried  further,  "Have  no 
fear." 

The  knights  of  Burgundy  made  ready 
for  war,  they  and  their  squires,  and  dis- 
sembled before  Siegfried  and  his  men. 
Siegfried  bade  them  of  the  Netherland 
lose  no  time,  and  they  sought  out.  their 
harness. 

Then  spake  stark  Siegfried,  "Tarry  here 
at  home,  Siegmund,  my  father.  If  God 
prosper  us,  we  shall  return  or  long  to  the 
Rhine.  Meanwhile,  be  thou  of  good  cheer 
here  by  the  king." 

They  made  as  if  to  depart,  and  bound  on 
the  standard.  Many  of  Gunther's  knights 
knew  nothing  of  how  the  matter  stood, 
and  a  mighty  host  gathered  round  Sieg- 
fried. They  bound  their  helmets  and 
their  coats  of  mail  on  to  the  horses  and 
stood  ready.  Then  went  Hagen  of  Trony 
to  Kriemhild,  to  take  his  leave  of  her,  for 
they  would  away. 

"Well  for  me,"  said  Kriemhild,  "that 
ever  I  won  to  husband  a  man  that  standeth 
so  true  by  his  friends,  as  doth  Siegfried 
by  my  kinsmen.  Right  proud  am  I. 
Bethink  thee  now,  Hagen,  dear  friend, 
how  that  in  all  things  I  am  at  thy  service, 
and  have  ever  willed  thee  well.  Requite 
me  through  my  husband,  that  I  love,  and 
avenge  not  on  him  what  I  did  to  Brunhild. 
Already  it  repenteth  me  sore.  My  body 
hath  smarted  for  it,  that  ever  I  troubled 
her  with  my  words.  Siegfried,  the  good 
knight,  hath  seen  to  that." 

Whereto  Hagen  answered,  "Ye  will 
shortly  be  at  one  again.  But  Kriemhild, 
prithee  tell  me  wherein  I  can  serve  thee 
with  Siegfried,  thy  husband,  and  I  will 
do  it,  for  I  love  none  better." 

"I  should  fear  naught  for  his  life  in 
battle,  but  that  he  is  foolhardy,  and  of  too 
proud  a  courage.  Save  for  that,  he  were 
safe  enow." 

Then  said  Hagen,  "Lady,  if  thou  fear- 
est  hurt  for  him  in  battle,  tell  me  now  by 
what  device  I  may  hinder  it,  and  I  will 
guard  him  afoot  and  on  horse." 

She  answered,  "  Thou  art  my  cousin,  and 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


I  thine.  To  thy  faith  I  commend  my  dear 
husband,  that  thou  mayst  watch  and 
keep  him." 

Then  she  told  him  what  she  had  better 
have  left  unsaid. 

"  My  husband  is  stark  and  bold.  When 
that  he  slew  the  dragon  on  the  mountain, 
he  bathed  him  in  its  blood;  wherefore  no 
weapon  can  pierce  him.  Nevertheless, 
when  he  rideth  in  battle,  and  spears  fly 
from  the  hands  of  heroes,  I  tremble  lest  I 
lose  him.  Alack!  for  Siegfried's  sake  how 
oft  have  I  been  heavy  of  my  cheer!  And 
now,  dear  cousin,  I  will  trust  thee  with  the 
secret,  and  tell  thee,  that  thou  mayst 
prove  thy  faith,  where  my  husband  may 
be  wounded.  For  that  I  know  thee  honor- 
able, I  do  this.  When  the  hot  blood  flowed 
from  the  wound  of  the  dragon,  and  Sieg- 
fried bathed  therein,  there  fell  atween 
his  shoulders  the  broad  leaf  of  a  lime  tree. 
There  one  might  stab  him,  and  thence  is 
my  care  and  dole." 

Then  answered  Hagen  of  Trony,  "  Sew, 
with  thine  own  hand,  a  small  sign  upon  his 
outer  garment,  that  I  may  know  where  to 
defend  him  when  we  stand  in  battle." 

She  did  it  to  profit  the  knight,  and 
worked  his  doom  thereby.  She  said, 
"I  will  sew  secretly,  with  fine  silk,  a  little 
cross  upon  his  garment,  and  there,  O 
knight,  shalt  thou  guard  to  me  my  hus- 
band when  ye  ride  in  the  thick  of  the 
strife,  and  he  withstandeth  his  foemen  in 
the  fierce  onset." 

"That  will  I  do,  dear  lady,"  answered 
Hagen. 

Kriemhild  thought  to  serve  Siegfried; 
so  was  the  hero  betrayed. 

Then  Hagen  took  his  leave  and  went 
forth  glad;  and  his  king  bade  him  say 
what  he  had  learned. 

"If  thou  wouldst  turn  from  the  journey, 
let  us  go  hunting  instead ;  for  I  have  learned 
the  secret,  and  have  him  in  my  hand. 
Wilt  thou  contrive  this?" 

"That  will  I,"  said  the  king. 

And  the  king's  men  rejoiced.  Never 
more,  I  ween,  will  knight  do  so  foully  as 
did  Hagen,  when  he  brake  his  faith  with 
the  queen. 

The  next  morning  Siegfried,  with  his 


thousand  knights,  rode  merrily  forth;  for 
he  thought  to  avenge  his  friends.  And 
Hagen  rode  nigh  him,  and  spied  at  his 
vesture.  When  he  saw  the  mark,  he  sent 
forward  two  of  his  men  secretly,  to  ride 
back  to  them  with  another  message: 
that  Ludger  bade  tell  the  king  his  land 
might  remain  at  peace. 

Loth  was  Siegfried  to  turn  his  rein  or 
he  had  done  battle  for  his  friends.  Gun- 
ther's  vassals  scarce  held  him  back.  Then 
he  rode  to  the  king,  that  thanked  him. 

"Now,  God  reward  thee,  Siegfried,  my 
kinsman,  that  thou  didst  grant  my  prayer 
so  readily.  Even  so  will  I  do  by  thee, 
and  that  justly.  I  hold  thee  trustiest  of 
all  my  friends.  Seeing  we  be  quit  of  this 
war,  let  us  ride  a  hunting  to  the  Odenwald 
after  the  bear  and  the  boar,  as  I  have 
often  done." 

Hagen,  the  false  man,  had  counselled  this. 

"Let  it  be  told  to  my  guests  straightway 
that  I  will  ride  early.  Whoso  would  hunt 
with  me,  let  him  be  ready  betimes.  But 
if  any  would  tarry  behind  for  pastime 
with  the  women,  he  shall  do  it,  and  please 
me  thereby." 

Siegfried  answered  on  courtly  wise,  "I 
will  hunt  with  thee  gladly,  and  will  ride  to 
the  forest,  if  thou  lend  me  a  huntsman 
and  some  brachs." 

"  Will  one  suffice?  "  asked  Gunther.  "  I 
will  lend  thee  four  that  know  the  forest 
well,  and  the  tracks  of  the  game,  that 
thou  come  not  home  empty-handed." 

Then  Siegfried  rode  to  his  wife. 

Meanwhile  Hagen  had  told  the  king 
how  he  would  trap  the  hero.  Let  all  men 
evermore  avoid  such  foul  treason.  When 
the  false  men  had  contrived  his  death, 
they  told  all  the  others.  Giselher  and 
Gernot  went  not  hunting  with  the  rest. 
I  know  not  for  what  grudge  they  warned 
him  not.  But  they  paid  dear  for  it. 

HOW  SIEGFRIED  WAS   SLAIN 

GUNTHER  and  Hagen,  the  fierce  warriors, 
went  hunting  with  false  intent  in  the  for- 
est, to  chase  the  boar,  the  bear,  and  the 
wild  bull,  with  their  sharp  spears.  Wha* 
fitter  sport  for  brave  men? 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Siegfried  rode  with  them  in  kingly  pomp. 
They  took  with  them  good  store  of  meats. 
By  a  cool  stream  he  lost  his  life,  as  Brun- 
hild, King  Gunther's  wife,  had  devised  it. 

But  or  he  set  out,  and  when  the  hunting- 
gear  was  laid  ready  on  the  sumpters  that 
they  were  to  take  across  the  Rhine,  he 
went  to  Kriemhild,  that  was  right  doleful 
of  her  cheer.  He  kissed  his  lady  on  the 
mouth.  "  God  grant  I  may  see  thee  safe 
and  well  again,  and  thou  me.  Bide  here 
merry  among  thy  kinsfolk,  for  I  must 
forth." 

Then  she  thought  on  the  secret  she  had 
betrayed  to  Hagen,  but  durst  not  tell  him. 
The  queen  wept  sore  that  ever  she  was 
born,  and  made  measureless  dole. 

She  said,  "  Go  not  hunting.  Last  night 
I  dreamed  an  evil  dream:  how  that  two 
wild  boars  chased  thee  over  the  heath; 
and  the  flowers  were  red  with  blood. 
Have  pity  on  my  tears,  for  I  fear  some 
treachery.  There  be  haply  some  offended, 
that  pursue  us  with  deadly  hate.  Go  not, 
dear  lord;  in  good  faith  I  counsel  it." 

But  he  answered,  "Dear  love,  I  go  but 
for  a  few  days.  I  know  not  any  that 
beareth  me  hate.  Thy  kinsmen  will  me 
well,  nor  have  I  deserved  otherwise  at 
their  hand." 

"Nay,  Siegfried,  I  fear  some  mischance. 
Last  night  I  dreamed  an  evil  dream:  how 
that  two  mountains  fell  on  thee,  and  I 
saw  thee  no  more.  If  thou  goest,  thou 
wilt  grieve  me  bitterly." 

But  he  caught  his  dear  one  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  close;  then  he  took  leave 
of  her  and  rode  off. 

She  never  saw  him  alive  again. 

They  rode  thence  into  a  deep  forest 
to  seek  sport.  The  king  had  many  bold 
knights  with  him,  and  rich  meats,  that 
they  had  need  of  for  the  journey.  Sump- 
ters passed  laden  before  them  over  the 
Rhine,  carrying  bread  and  wine,  and 
flesh  and  fish,  and  meats  of  all  sorts,  as 
was  fitting  for  a  rich  king. 

The  bold  huntsmen  encamped  before  the 
green  wood  where  they  were  to  hunt,  on 
a  broad  meadow.  Siegfried  also  was  there, 
which  was  told  to  the  king.  And  they 
set  a  watch  round  the  camp. 


Then  said  stark  Siegfried,  "Who  will 
into  the  forest  and  lead  us  to  the  game?" 

"If  we  part  or  we  begin  the  chase  in 
the  wood,"  said  Hagen,  "we  shall  know 
which  is  the  best  sportsman.  Let  us 
divide  the  huntsmen  and  the  hounds;  then 
let  each  ride  alone  as  him  listeth,  and  he 
who  hunteth  the  best  shall  be  praised." 
So  they  started  without  more  ado. 

But  Siegfried  said,  "One  hound  that 
hath  been  well  trained  for  the  chase  will 
suffice  for  me.  There  will  be  sport 
enow!" 

Then  an  old  huntsman  took  a  lime- 
hound,  and  brought  the  company  where 
there  was  game  in  plenty.  They  hunted 
down  all  the  beasts  they  started,  as  good 
sportsmen  should. 

Whatsoever  the  limehound  started,  the 
hero  of  the  Netherland  slew  with  his  hand. 
His  horse  ran  so  swift  that  naught  escaped 
him;  he  won  greater  praise  than  any  in 
the  chase.  In  all  things  he  was  right 
manly.  The  first  that  he  smote  to  the 
death  was  a  half-bred  boar.  Soon  after, 
he  encountered  a  grim  lion,  that  the  lime- 
hound  started.  This  he  shot  with  his 
bow  and  a  sharp  arrow;  the  lion  made 
only  three  springs  or  he  fell.  Loud  was 
the  praise  of  his  comrades.  Then  he 
killed,  one  after  the  other,  a  buffalo,  an 
elk,  four  stark  ure-oxen,  and  a  grim  sheik. 
His  horse  carried  him  so  swiftly  that  noth- 
ing outran  him.  Deer  and  hind  escaped 
him  hot. 

The  limehound  tracked  a  wild  boar  next 
that  began  to  flee.  But  Siegfried  rode 
up  and  barred  the  path,  whereat  the  mon- 
ster ran  at  the  knight.  He  slew  him  with 
his  sword.  Not  so  lightly  had  another 
done  it. 

They  leashed  the  limehound  then,  and 
told  the  Burgundians  how  Siegfried  had 
prospered.  Whereupon  his  huntsmen  said, 
"Prithee,  leave  something  alive;  thou 
emptiest  to  us  both  mountain  and  forest." 
And  Siegfried  laughed. 

The  noise  of  the  chase  was  all  round 
them;  hill  and  wood  rang  with  shouting 
arid  the  baying  of  dogs,  for  the  huntsmen 
had  loosed  twenty  and  four  hounds. 
Many  a  beast  perished  that  day,  for  each 


84 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


thought  to  win  the  prize  of  the  chase. 
But  when  stark  Siegfried  rode  to  the 
tryst-fire,  they  saw  that  could  not  be. 

The  hunt  was  almost  over.  The  sports- 
men brought  skins  and  game  enow  with 
them  to  the  camp.  No  lack  of  meat  for 
cooking  was  there,  I  ween. 

Then  the  king  bade  tell  the  knights 
that  he  would  dine.  And  they  blew  a 
blast  on  a  horn,  that  told  the  king  was 
at  the  tryst-fire. 

Said  one  of  Siegfried's  huntsmen,  "I 
heard  the  blast  of  a  horn  bidding  us  back 
to  the  camp.  I  will  answer  it."  And 
they  kept  blowing  to  assemble  the  com- 
pany. 

Siegfried  bade  quit  the  wood.  His 
horse  bare  him  smoothly,  and  the  others 
pricked  fast  behind.  The  noise  roused 
a  grim  bear,  whereat  the  knight  cried  to 
them  that  came  after  him,  "Now  for 
sport!  Slip  the  dog,  for  I  see  a  bear  that 
shall  with  us  to  the  tryst-fire.  He  cannot 
escape  us,  if  he  ran  ever  so  fast." 

They  slipped  the  limehound;  off  rushed 
the  bear.  Siegfried  thought  to  run  him 
down,  but  he  came  to  a  ravine,  and  could 
not  get  to  him;  then  the  bear  deemed  him 
safe.  But  the  proud  knight  sprang  from 
his  horse,  and  pursued  him.  The  beast 
had  no  shelter.  It  could  not  escape  from 
him,  and  was  caught  by  his  hand,  and, 
or  it  could  wound  him,  he  had  bound  it, 
that  it  could  neither  scratch  nor  bite. 
Then  he  tied  it  to  his  saddle,  and,  when 
he  had  mounted  up  himself,  he  brought  it 
to  the  tryst-fire  for  pastime. 

•How  right  proudly  he  rode  to  the  camp- 
ing ground!  His  boar-spear  was  mickle, 
stark  and  broad.  His  sword  hung  down 
to  the  spur,  and  his  hunting-horn  was 
of  ruddy  gold.  Of  better  hunting-gear  I 
never  heard  tell.  His  coat  was  black 
samite,  and  'his  hat  was  goodly  sable. 
His  quiver  was  richly  laced,  and  covered 
with  a  panther's  hide  for  the  sake  of  the 
sweet  smell.  He  bare,  also,  a  bow  that 
none  could  draw  but  himself,  unless  with  a 
windlass.  His  cloak  was  a  lynx-skin,  pied 
from  head  to  foot,  and  embroidered  over 
with  gold  on  both  sides.  Also  Balmung 
had  he  done  on,  whereof  the  edges  were 


so  sharp  that  it  clave  every  helmet  it 
touched.  I  ween  the  huntsman  was  merry 
of  his  cheer.  Yet,  to  tell  you  the  whole, 
I  must  say  how  his  rich  quiver  was  filled 
with  good  arrows,  gilt  on  the  shaft,  and 
broad  a  hand's  breadth  or  more.  Swift 
and  sure  was  the  death  of  him  that  he 
smote  therewith. 

So  the  knight  rode  proudly  from  the 
torest,  and  Gunther's  men  saw  him  coming, 
and  ran  and  held  his  horse. 

When  he  had  alighted,  he  loosed  the 
band  from  the  paws  and  from  the  mouth 
of  the  bear  that  he  had  bound  to  his 
saddle. 

So  soon  as  they  saw  the  bear,  the  dogs 
began  to  bark.  The  animal  tried  to  win 
back  to  the  wood,  and  all  the  folk  fell  in 
great  fear.  Affrighted  by  the  noise,  it 
ran  through  the  kitchen.  Nimbly  started 
the  scullions  from  their  place  by  the  fire. 
Pots  were  upset  and  the  brands  strewed 
over  all.  Alack!  the  good  meats  that 
tumbled  into  the  ashes ! 

Then  up  sprang  the  princes  and  their 
men.  The  bear  began  to  growl,  and  the 
king  gave  order  to  slip  the  hounds  that 
were  on  leash.  I'  faith,  it  had  been  a 
merry  day  if  it  had  ended  so. 

Hastily,  with  their  bows  and  spears, 
the  warriors,  swift  of  foot,  chased  the  bear, 
but  there  were  so  many  dogs  that  none 
durst  shoot  among  them,  and  the  forest 
rang  with  the  din.  Then  the  bear  fled 
before  the  dogs,  and  none  could  keep  pace 
with  him  save  Kriemhild's  husband,  that 
ran  up  to  him  and  pierced  him  dead  with 
his  sword,  and  carried  the  carcase  back 
with  him  to  the  fire.  They  that  saw  it 
said  he  was  a  mighty  man. 

Then  they  bade  the  sportsmen  to  the 
table,  and  they  sat  down,  a  goodly  com- 
pany enow,  on  a  fair  meadow.  Ha!  what 
dishes,  meet  for  heroes,  were  set  before 
them.  But  the  cup-bearers  were  tardy, 
that  should  have  brought  the  wine.  Save 
for  that,  knights  were  never  better  served. 
If  there  had  not  been  false-hearted  men 
among  them,  they  had  been  without  re- 
proach. The  doomed  man  had  no  sus- 
picion that  might  have  warned  him,  for 
his  own  heart  was  pure  of  all  deceit. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Many  that  his  death  profited  not  at  all 
had  to  pay  for  it  bitterly. 

Then  said  Sir  Siegfried,  "I  marvel,  since 
they  bring  us  so  much  from  the  kitchen, 
that  they  bring  not  the  wine.  If  good 
hunters  be  entreated  so,  I  will  hunt  no 
more.  Certes,  I  have  deserved  better  at 
your  hands." 

Whereto  the  king  at  the  table  answered 
falsely,  "What  lacketh  to-day  we  will 
make  good  another  time.  The  blame  is 
Hagen's,  that  would  have  us  perish  of 
thirst." 

Then  said  Hagen  of  Trony,  "Dear 
master,  methought  we  were  to  hunt  to-day 
at  Spessart,  and  I  sent  the  wine  thither. 
For  the  present  we  must  go  thirsty;  an- 
other time  I  will  take  better  care." 

But  Siegfried  cried,  "Small  thank  to 
him.  Seven  sumpters  with  meat  and 
spiced  wines  should  he  have  sent  here  at 
the  least,  or,  if  that  might  not  be,  we 
should  have  gone  nigher  to  the  Rhine." 

Hagen  of  Trony  answered,  "  I  know  of  a 
cool  spring  close  at  hand.  Be  not  wroth 
with  me,  but  take  my  counsel,  and  go 
thither."  The  which  was  done,  to  the 
hurt  of  many  warriors.  Siegfried  was 
sore  athirst  and  bade  push  back  the  table, 
that  he  might  go  to  the  spring  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain.  Falsely  had  the  knights 
contrived  it.  The  wild  beasts  that  Sieg- 
fried's hand  had  slain  they  let  pile  on  a 
waggon  and  take  home,  and  all  they  that 
saw  it  praised  him. 

Foully  did  Hagen  break  faith  with  Sieg- 
fried. He  said,  when  they  were  starting 
for  the  broad  lime  tree,  "I  hear  from  all 
sides  that  none  can  keep  pace  with  Kriem- 
hild's  husband  when  he  runneth.  Let  us 
see  now." 

Bold  Siegfried  of  the  Netherland  an- 
swered, "Thou  mayst  easily  prove  it,  if 
thou  wilt  run  with  me  to  the  brook  for  a 
wager.  The  praise  shall  be  to  him  that 
winneth  there  first." 

"Let  us  see  then,"  said  Hagen  the 
knight. 

And  stark  Siegfried  answered,  "If  I  lose, 
I  will  lay  me  at  thy  feet  in  the  grass." 

A  glad  man  was  King  Gunther  when  he 
heard  that  i 


Said  Siegfried  further,  "Nay,  I  will 
undertake  more.  I  will  carry  on  me  all 
that  I  wear — spear,  shield,  and  hunting 
gear."  Whereupon  he  girded  on  his 
sword  and  his  quiver  in  haste.  Then  the 
others  did  off  their  clothes,  till  they  stood 
in  their  white  shirts,  and  they  ran  through 
the  clover  like  two  wild  panthers;  but  bold 
Siegfried  was  seen  there  the  first.  Before 
all  men  he  won  the  prize  in  everything. 
He  loosed  his  sword  straightway,  and  laid 
down  his  quiver.  His  good  spear  he 
leaned  against  the  lime  tree;  then  the 
noble  guest  stood  and  waited,  for  his  cour- 
tesy was  great.  He  laid  down  his  shield 
by  the  stream.  Albeit  he  was  sore  athirst, 
he  drank  not  till  that  the  king  had  finished, 
who  gave  him  evil  thanks. 

The  stream  was  cool,  pure,  and  good. 
Gunther  bent  down  to  the  water,  and  rose 
again  when  he  had  drunk.  Siegfried  had 
gladly  done  the  like,  but  he  suffered  for  his 
courtesy.  Hagen  carried  his  bow  and 
his  sword  out  of  his  reach,  and  sprang 
back  and  gripped  the  spear.  Then  he 
spied  for  the  secret  mark  on  his  vesture; 
and  while  Siegfried  drank  from  the  stream, 
Hagen  stabbed  him  where  the  cross  was, 
that  his  heart's  blood  spurted  out  on  the 
traitor's  clothes.  Never  since  hath  knight 
done  so  wickedly.  He  left  the  spear  stick-' 
ing  deep  in  his  heart,  and  fled  in  grimmer 
haste  than  ever  had  he  done  from  any 
man  on  this  earth  afore. 

When  stark  Siegfried  felt  the  deep 
wound,  he  sprang  up  maddened  from  the 
water,  for  the  long  boar  spear  stuck  out 
from  his  heart.  He  thought  to  find  bow 
or  sword;  if  he  had,  Hagen  had  got  his  due. 
But  the  sore-wounded  man  saw  no  sword, 
and  had  nothing  save  his  shield.  He 
picked  it  up  from  the  water's  edge  and 
ran  at  Hagen.  King  Gunther's  man  could 
not  escape  him.  For  all  that  he  was 
wounded  to  the  death,  he  smote  so  mightily 
that  the  shield  well-nigh  brake,  and  the 
precious  stones  flew  out.  The  noble 
guest  had  fain  taken  vengeance. 

Hagen  fell  beneath  his  stroke.  The 
meadow  rang  loud  with  the  noise  of  the 
blow.  If  he  had  had  his  sword  to  hand, 
Hagen  had  been  a  dead  man.  But  the, 


86 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


anguish  of  his  wound  constrained  him. 
His  color  was  wan;  he  could  not  stand 
upright;  and  the  strength  of  his  body 
failed  him,  for  he  bare  death's  mark  on 
his  white  cheek.  Fair  women  enow  made 
dole  for  him. 

Then  Kriemhild's  husband  fell  among 
the  flowers.  The  blood  flowed  fast  from 
his  wound,  and  in  his  great  anguish  he 
began  to  upbraid  them  that  had  falsely 
contrived  his  death.  "False  cowards!" 
cried  the  dying  knight.  "What  availeth 
all  my  service  to  you,  since  ye  have  slain 
me?  I  was  true  to  you,  and  pay  the  price 
for  it.  Ye  have.'  done  ill  by  your  friends. 
Cursed  by  this  deed  are  your  sons  yet  un- 
born. Ye  have  avenged  your  spite  on 
my  body  all  too  bitterly.  For  your  crime 
ye  shall  be  shunned  by  good  knights." 

All  the  warriors  ran  where  he  lay 
stabbed.  To  many  among  them  it  was  a 
woeful  day.  They  that  were  true  mourned 
for  him,  the  which  the  hero  had  well  de- 
served of  all  men. 

The  King  of  Burgundy,  also,  wept  for 
his  death,  but  the  dying  man  said,  "He 
needeth  not  to  weep  for  the  evil,  by  whom 
the  evil  cometh.  Better  had  he  left  it 
undone,  for  mickle  is  his  blame." 

Then  said  grim  Hagen,  "I  know  not 
what  ye  rue.  All  is  ended  for  us — care 
and  trouble.  Few  are  they  now  that  will 
withstand  us.  Glad  am  I  that,  through 
me,  his  might  is  fallen." 

"Lightly  mayst  thou  boast  now,"  said 
Siegfried;  "if  I  had  known  thy  murderous 
hate,  it  had  been  an  easy  thing  to  guard 
my  body  from  thee.  My  bitterest  dole 
is  for  Kriemhild,  my  wife.  God  pity  me 
that  ever  I  had  a  son.  For  all  men  will 
reproach  him  that  he  hath  murderers  to 
his  kinsmen.  I  would  grieve  for  that,  had 
I  the  time." 

He  said  to  the  king,  "Never  in  this 
world  was  so  foul  a  murder  as  thou  hast 
done  on  me.  In  thy  sore  need  I  saved 
thy  life  and  thine  honor.  Dear  have  I 
paid  for  that  I  did  well  by  thee."  With  a 
groan  the  wounded  man  said  further, 
"Yet  if  thou  canst  show  truth  to  any  on 
this  earth,  O  King,  show  it  to  my  dear 
wife,  that  I  commend  to  thee.  Let  it 


advantage  her  to  be  thy  sister.  By  all 
princely  honor  stand  by  her.  Long  must 
my  father  and  my  knights  wait  for  my 
coming.  Never  hath  woman  won  such 
woe  through  a  dear  one." 

He  writhed  in  his  bitter  anguish,  and 
spake  painfully,  "Ye  shall  rue  this  foul 
deed  in  the  days  to  come.  Know  this  of  a 
truth,  that  in  slaying  me  ye  have  slain 
yourselves." 

The  flowers  were  all  wet  with  blood. 
He  strove  with  death,  but  not  for  long,  for 
the  weapon  of  death  cut  too  deep.  And 
the  bold  knight  and  good  spake  no  more. 

When  the  warriors  saw  that  the  hero 
was  dead,  they  laid  him  on  a  shield  of 
ruddy  gold,  and  took  counsel  how  they 
should  conceal  that  Hagen  had  done  it. 
Many  of  them  said,  "Evil  hath  befalleu 
us.  Ye  shall  all  hide  it,  and  hold  to  one 
tale — when  Kriemhild's  husband  was  rid- 
ing alone  in  the  forest,  robbers  slew  him." 

But  Hagen  of  Trony  said,  "I  will  take 
him  back  to  Burgundy.  If  she  that  hath 
troubled  Brunhild  know  it,  I  care  not.  It 
concerneth  me  little  if  she  weep." 

Of  that  very  brook  where  Siegfried  was 
slain  ye  shall  hear  the  truth  from  me.  In 
the  Odenwald  is  a  village  that  hight  Oden- 
heim,  and  there  the  stream  runneth  still; 
beyond  doubt  it  is  the  same. 


HOW  KRIEMHILD  RECEIVED  HAGEN 

WHEN  the  Burgundians  came  into  the 
land,  old  Hildebrand  of  Bern  heard  there- 
of, and  told  his  master,  that  was  grieved 
at  the  news.  He  bade  him  give  hearty 
welcome  to  the  valiant  knights. 

Bold  Wolf  hart  called  for  the  horses,  and 
many  stark  warriors  rode  with  Dietrich  to 
greet  them  on  the  plain,  where  they  had 
pitched  their  goodly  tents. 

When  Hagen  of  Trony  saw  them  from 
afar,  he  spake  courteously  to  his  masters, 
"Arise,  ye  doughty  heroes,  and  go  to  meet 
them  that  come  to  welcome  you.  A  com- 
pany of  warriors  that  I  know  well  draw 
hither — the  heroes  of  the  Amelung  land. 
They  are  men  of  high  courage.  Scorn 
not  their  service." 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


Then,  as  was  seemly,  Dietrich,  with 
many  knights  and  squires,  sprang  to  the 
ground.  They  hasted  to  the  guests,  and 
welcomed  the  heroes  of  Burgundy  lovingly. 

When  Dietrich  saw  them,  he  was  both 
glad  and  sorry;  he  knew  what  was  toward, 
and  grieved  that  they  were  come.  He 
deemed  that  Rudeger  was  privy  to  it,  and 
had  told  them.  "  Ye  be  welcome,  Gunther 
and  Giselher,  Gernot  and  Hagen;  Folker, 
likewise,  and  Dankwart  the  swift.  Know 
ye  not  that  Kriemhild  still  mourneth 
bitterly  for  the  hero  of  the  Nibelungs?" 

"She  will  weep  awhile,"  answered 
Hagen.  "This  many  a  year  he  lieth  slain. 
She  did  well  to  comfort  her  with  the  king 
of  the  Huns.  Siegfried  will  not  come 
again.  He  is  long  buried." 

"Enough  of  Siegfried's  wounds.  While 
Kriemhild,  my  mistress,  liveth,  mischief 
may  well  betide.  Wherefore,  hope  of  the 
Nibelungs,  beware!"  So  spake  Dietrich 
of  Bern. 

"Wherefore  should  I  beware?"  said  the 
king.  "Etzel  sent  us  envoys  (what  more 
could  I  ask?)  bidding  us  hither  to  this 
land.  My  sister  Kriemhild,  also,  sent  us 
many  greetings." 

But  Hagen  said,  "Bid  Sir  Dietrich  and 
his  good  knights  tell  us  further  of  this 
matter,  that  they  may  show  us  the  mind 
of  Kriemhild." 

Then  the  three  kings  went  apart:  Gun- 
ther and  Gernot  and  Dietrich. 

"Now  tell  us,  noble  knight  of  Bern, 
what  thou  knowest  of  the  queen's  mind." 

The  prince  of  Bern  answered,  "What 
can  I  tell  you,  save  that  every  morning  I 
have  heard  Etzel's  wife  weeping  and  wail- 
ing in  bitter  woe  to  the  great  God  of 
Heaven,  because  of  stark  Siegfried's 
death?" 

Said  bold  Folker,  the  fiddler,  "There  is 
no  help  for  it.  Let  us  ride  to  the  court 
and  see  what  befalleth  us  among  the 
Huns." 

The  bold  Burgundians  rode  to  the  court 
right  proudly,  after  the  custom  of  their 
land.  Many  bold  Huns  marvelled  much 
what  manner  of  man  Hagen  of  Trony 
might  be.  The  folk  knew  well,  from  hear- 
say, that  he  had  slain  Siegfried  of  the 


Netherland,  the  starkest  of  all  knights, 
Kriemhild's  husband.  Wherefore  many 
questions  were  asked  concerning  him. 
The  hero  was  of  great  stature;  that  is 
certain.  His  shoulders  were  broad,  his 
hair  was  grisled;  his  legs  were  long,  and 
terrible  was  his  face.  He  walked  with  a 
proud  gait. 

Then  lodging  was  made  ready  for  the 
Burgundians.  Gunther's  attendants  lay 
separate  from  the  others.  The  queen, 
that  greatly  hated  Gunther,  had  so  ordered 
it.  By  this  device  his  yeomen  were  slain 
soon  after. 

Dankwart,  Hagen's  brother,  was  mar- 
shal. The  king  commended  his  men  earn- 
estly to  his  care,  that  he  might  give  them 
meat  and  drink  enow,  the  which  the  bold 
knight  did  faithfully  and  with  good  will. 

Kriemhild  went  forth  with  her  atten- 
dants and  welcomed  the  Nibelungs  with 
false  heart.  She  kissed  Giselher  and  took 
him  by  the  hand.  When  Hagen  of  Trony 
saw  that,  he  bound  his  helmet  on  tighter. 

"After  such  greeting,"  he  said,  "good 
knights  may  well  take  thought.  The 
kings  and  their  men  are  not  all  alike  wel- 
come. No  good  cometh  of  our  journey  to 
this  hightide." 

She  answered,  "Let  him  that  is  glad  to 
see  thee  welcome  thee.  I  will  not  greet 
thee  as  a  friend.  What  bringest  thou  for 
me  from  Worms,  beyond  the  Rhine,  that 
thou  shouldst  be  so  greatly  welcome?  " 

"This  is  news,"  said  Hagen,  "that 
knights  should  bring  thee  gifts.  Had  I 
thought  of  it,  I  had  easily  brought  thee 
something.  I  am  rich  enow." 

"Tell  me  what  thou  hast  done  with  the 
Nibelung  hoard.  That,  at  the  least,  was 
mine  own.  Ye  should  have  brought  it 
with  you  into  Etzel's  land." 

"By  my  troth,  lady,  I  have  not  touched 
the  Nibelung  hoard  this  many  a  year. 
My  masters  bade  me  sink  it  in  the  Rhine. 
There  it  must  bide  till  the  day  of  doom." 

Then  said  the  queen,  "I  thought  so. 
Little  hast  thou  brought  thereof,  albeit 
it  was  mine  own,  and  held  by  me  afore- 
time. Many  a  sad  day  I  have  lived  for 
lack  of  it  and  its  lord." 

"I  bring  thee  the  devil!"  cried  Hagen. 


88 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


"  My  shield  and  my  harness  were  enow  to 
carry,  and  my  bright  helmet,  and  the 
sword  in  my  hand.  I  have  brought  thee 
naught  further." 

"I  speak  not  of  my  treasure,  because  I 
desire  the  gold.  I  have  so  much  to  give 
that  I  need  not  thy  offerings.  A  murder 
and  a  double  theft — it  is  these  that  I, 
unhappiest  of  women,  would  have  thee 
make  good  to  me." 

Then  said  the  queen  to  all  the  knights, 
"None  shall  bear  weapons  in  this  hall. 
Deliver  them  to  me,  ye  knights,  that  they 
be  taken  in  charge." 

"Not  so,  by  my  troth,"  said  Hagen; 
"  I  crave  not  the  honor,  great  daughter  of 
kings,  to  have  thee  bear  my  shield  and 
other  weapons  to  safe  keeping.  Thou 
art  a  queen  here.  My  father  taught  me 
to  guard  them  myself." 

" Woe  is  me ! "  cried  Kriemhild.  "Why 
will  not  Hagen  and  my  brother  give  up 
their  shields?  They  are  warned.  If  I 
knew  him  that  did  it,  he  should  die." 

Sir  Dietrich  answered  wrathfully  then, 
"I  am  he  that  warned  the  noble  kings, 
and  bold  Hagen,  the  man  of  Burgundy. 
Do  thy  worst,  thou  devil's  wife,  I  care 
not!" 

Kriemhild  was  greatly  ashamed,  for  she 
stood  in  bitter  fear  of  Dietrich.  She  went 
from  him  without  a  word,  but  with  swift 
and  wrathful  glances  at  her  foes. 

Then  two  knights  clasped  hands — the 
one  was  Dietrich,  the  other  Hagen.  Diet- 
rich, the  valiant  warrior,  said  courteously, 
"I  grieve  to  see  thee  here,  since  the  queen 
hath  spoken  thus." 

Hagen  of  Trony  answered,  "It  will  all 
come  right." 

So  the  bold  men  spake  together,  and 
King  Etzel  saw  them,  and  asked,  "  I  would 
know  who  yonder  knight  is  that  Dietrich 
welcometh  so  lovingly.  He  beareth  him 
proudly.  Howso  is  his  father  hight,  he  is, 
certes,  a  goodly  warrior." 

One  of  Kriemhild's  men  answered  the 
king,  "He  was  born  at  Trony.  The  name 
of  his  father  was  Aldrian.  Albeit  now  he 
goeth  gently,  he  is  a  grim  man.  I  will 
prove  to  thee  yet  that  I  lie  not." 

"How  shall  I  find  him  so  grim?"    He 


knew  nothing,  as  yet,  of  all  that  the  queea 
contrived  against  her  kinsmen:  by  reason 
whereof  not  one  of  them  escaped  alive  from 
the  Huns. 

"I  know  Hagen  well.  He  was  my  vas- 
sal. Praise  and  mickle  honor  he  won  here 
by  me.  I  made  him  a  knight,  and  gave 
him  my  gold.  For  that  he  proved  him 
faithful,  I  was  ever  kind  to  him.  Where- 
fore I  may  well  know  all  about  him.  I 
brought  two  noble  children  captive  to  this 
land — him  and  Walter  of  Spain.  Here 
they  grew  to  manhood.  Hagen  I  sent 
home  again.  Walter  fled  with  Hilde- 
gund." 

So  he  mused  on  the  good  old  days,  and 
what  had  happed  long  ago,  for  he  had 
seen  Hagen,  that  did  him  stark  service  in 
his  youth.  Yet  now  that  he  was  old,  he 
lost  by  him  many  a  dear  friend. 


HOW  THE  QUEEN  BAD  THEM  BURN  DOWH 
THE  HALL 

"Now  do  off  your  helmets,"  said  Hagen 
the  knight.  "I  and  my  comrade  will 
keep  watch.  And  if  Etzel's  men  try  it 
again,  I  will  warn  my  masters  straight- 
way." 

Then  many  a  good  warrior  unlaced  his 
helmet.  They  sat  down  on  the  bodies 
that  had  fallen  in  the  blood  by  their  hands. 
With  bitter  hate  the  guests  were  spied  at 
by  the  Huns. 

Before  nightfall  the  king  and  queen  had 
prevailed  on  the  men  of  Hungary  to  dare 
the  combat  anew.  Twenty  thousand  or 
more  stood  before  them  ready  for  battle. 
These  hasted  to  fall  on  the  strangers. 

Dankwart,  Hagen's  brother,  sprang 
from  his  masters  to  the  foemen  at  the 
door.  They  thought  he  was  slain,  but 
he  came  forth  alive. 

The  strife  endured  till  the  night.  The 
guests,  as  beseemed  good  warriors,  had 
defended  them  against  Etzel's  men  all 
through  the  long  summer  day.  Ha! 
what  doughty  heroes  lay  dead  before  them. 
It  was  on  a  midsummer  that  the  great 
slaughter  fell,  when  Kriemhild  avenged'' 
her  heart's  dole  on  her  nearest  kinsmen. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


and  on  many  another  man,  and  all  King 
Etzel's  joy  was  ended.  Yet  she  purposed 
not  at  the  first  to  bring  it  to  such  a  bloody 
encounter,  but  only  to  kill  Hagen ;  but  the 
devil  contrived  it  so  that  they  must  all 
perish. 

The  day  was  done;  they  were  in  sore 
straits.  They  deemed  a  quick  death  had 
been  better  than  long  anguish.  The 
proud  knights  would  fain  have  had  a 
truce.  They  asked  that  the  king  might 
be  brought  to  them. 

The  heroes,  red  with  blood,  and  black- 
ened with  the  soil  of  their  harness,  stepped 
out  of  the  hall  with  the  three  kings.  They 
knew  not  whom  to  bewail  their  bitter 
woe  to. 

Both  Etzel  and  Kriemhild  came.  The 
land  all  round  was  theirs,  and  many  had 
joined  their  host.  Etzel  said  to  the  guests, 
"  What  would  ye  with  me?  Haply  ye  seek 
for  peace.  That  can  hardly  be,  after  such 
wrong  as  ye  have  done  me  and  mine.  Ye 
shall  pay  for  it  while  I  have  life.  Because 
of  my  child  that  ye  slew,  and  my  many 
men,»  nor  peace  nor  truce  shall  ye  have." 

Gunther  answered,  "A  great  wrong 
constrained  us  thereto.  All  my  followers 
perished  in  their  lodging  by  the  hands  of 
thy  knights.  What  had  I  done  to  deserve 
that?  I  came  to  see  thee  in  good  faith, 
for  I  deemed  thou  wert  my  friend." 

Then  said  Giselher,  the  youth,  of  Bur- 
gundy, "Ye  knights  of  King  Etzel  that 
yet  live,  what  have  ye  against  me?  How 
had  I  wronged  you? — I  that  rode  hither 
with  loving  heart?" 

They  answered,  "Thy  love  hath  filled 
all  the  castles  of  this  country  with  mourn- 
ing. We  had  gladly  been  spared  thy  jour- 
ney from  Worms  beyond  the  Rhine. 
Thou  hast  orphaned  the  land — thou  and 
thy  brothers." 

Then  cried  Gunther  in  wrath,  "If  ye 
would  lay  from  you  this  stark  hate  against 
us  homeless  ones,  it  were  well  for  both 
sides,  for  we  are  guiltless  before  Etzel." 

But  the  host  answered  the  guests, 
"My  scathe  is  greater  than  thine;  because 
of  the  mickle  toil  of  the  strife,  and  its 
shame,  not  one  of  you  shall  come  forth 
alive." 


Then  said  stark  Gernot  to  the  king, 
"Herein,  at  the  least,  incline  thy  heart  to 
do  mercifully  with  us.  Stand  back  from 
the  house,  that  we  win  out  to  you.  We 
know  that  our  life  is  forfeit;  let  what  must 
come,  come  quickly.  Thou  hast  many 
knights  un wounded;  let  them  fall  on  us, 
and  give  us  battle-weary  ones  rest.  How 
long  wouldst  thou  have  us  strive?" 

King  Etzel's  knights  would  have  let 
them  forth,  but  when  Kriemhild  heard  it, 
she  was  wroth,  and  even  this  boon  was 
denied  to  the  strangers. 

"Nay  now,  ye  Huns,  I  entreat  you,  hi 
good  faith,  that  ye  let  not  these  lusters 
after  blood  come  out  from  the  hall,  lest 
thy  kinsmen  all  perish  miserably.  If 
none  of  them  were  left  alive  save  Uta's 
children,  my  noble  brothers,  and  won  they 
to  the  air  to  cool  their  harness,  ye  were 
lost.  Bolder  knights  were  never  born 
into  the  world." 

Then  said  young  Giselher,  "Fairest 
sister  mine,  right  evil  I  deem  it  that  thou 
badest  me  across  the  Rhine  to  this  bitter 
woe.  How  have  I  deserved  death  from 
the  Huns?  I  was  ever  true  to  thee,  nor 
did  thee  any  hurt.  I  rode  hither,  dearest 
sister,  for  that  I  trusted  to  thy  love. 
Needs  must  thou  show  mercy." 

"I  will  show  no  mercy,  for  I  got  none. 
Bitter  wrong  did  Hagen  of  Trony  to  me 
in  my  home  yonder,  and  here  he  hath 
slam  my  child.  They  that  came  with 
him  must  pay  for  it.  Yet,  if  ye  will  de- 
liver Hagen  captive,  I  will  grant  your 
prayer,  and  let  you  live;  for  ye  are  my 
brothers,  and  the  children  of  one  mother. 
I  will  prevail  upon  my  knights  here  to 
grant  a  truce." 

"God  in  heaven  forbid!"  cried  Gernot. 
"Though  we  were  a  thousand,  liefer  would 
we  all  die  by  thy  kinsmen,  than  give  one 
single  man  for  our  ransom.  That  we  will 
never  do." 

"We  must  perish  then,"  said  Giselher; 
"but  we  will  fall  as  good  knights.  We 
are  still  here;  would  any  fight  with  us? 
I  will  never  do  falsely  by  my  friend." 

Cried  bold  Dankwart  too  (he  had  done 
ill  to  hold  his  peace),  "My  brother  Hagen 
standeth  not  alone.  They  that  have 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


denied  us  quarter  may  rue  it  yet.  By 
my  troth,  ye  will  find  it  to  your  cost." 

Then  said  the  queen,  "Ye  heroes  un- 
dismayed, go  forward  to  the  steps  and 
avenge  our  wrong.  I  will  thank  you  for- 
ever, and  with  cause.  I  will  requite 
Hagen's  insolence  to  the  full.  Let  not 
one  of  them  forth  at  any  point,  and  I  will 
kindle  the  hall  at  its  four  sides.  So  will 
my  heart's  dole  be  avenged." 

Etzel's  knights  were  not  loth.  With 
darts  and  with  blows  they  drave  back  into 
the  house  them  that  stood  without.  Loud 
was  the  din;  but  the  princes  and  their 
men  were  not  parted,  nor  failed  they  in 
faith  to  one  another. 

Etzel's  wife  bade  the  hall  be  kindled, 
and  they  tormented  the  bodies  of  the 
heroes  with  fire.  The  wind  blew,  and  the 
house  was  soon  all  aflame.  Folk  never 
suffered  worse,  I  ween.  There  were  many 
that  cried,  "Woe  is  me  for  this  pain! 
Liefer  had  we  died  in  battle.  God  pity 
us,  for  we  are  all  lost.  The  queen  taketh 
bitter  vengeance." 

One  among  them  wailed,  "We  perish 
by  the  smoke  and  the  fire.  Grim  is  ouf 
torment.  The  stark  heat  maketh  me  so 
athirst,  that  I  die." 

Said  Hagen  of  Trony,  "  Ye  noble  knights 
and  good,  let  any  that  are  athirst  drink 
the  blood.  In  this  heat  it  is  better  than 
wine,  and  there  is  naught  sweeter  here." 

Then  went  one  where  he  found  a  dead 
body.  He  knelt  by  the  wounds,  and  did 
off  his  helmet,  and  began  to  drink  the 
streaming  blood.  Albeit  he  was  little 
used  thereto,  he  deemed  it  right  good. 
"God  quit  thee,  Sir  Hagen!"  said  the 
weary  man,  "I  have  learned  a  good  drink. 
Never  did  I  taste  better  wine.  If  I  live, 
I  will  thank  thee." 

When  the  others  heard  his  praise,  many 
more  of  them  drank  the  blood,  and  their 
bodies  were  strengthened,  for  the  which 
many  a  noble  woman  paid  through  her 
dear  ones. 

The  fire-flakes  fell  down  on  them  in  the 
hall,  but  they  warded  them  off  with  their 
shields.  Both  the  smoke  and  the  fire 
tormented  them.  Never  before  suffered 
heroes  such  sore  pain. 


Then  said  Hagen  of  Trony,  "Stand  fast 
by  the  wall.  Let  not  the  brands  fall  on 
your  helmets.  Trample  them  with  your 
feet  deeper  in  the  blood.  A  woeful  high- 
tide  is  the  queen's." 

The  night  ended  at  last.  The  bold 
gleeman,  and  Hagen,  his  comrade,  stood 
before  the  house  and  leaned  upon  their 
shields.  They  waited  for  further  hurt 
from  Etzel's  knights.  It  advantaged  the 
strangers  much  that  the  roof  was  vaulted. 
By  reason  thereof  more  were  left  alive. 
Albeit  they  at  the  windows  suffered  scathe, 
they  bare  them  valiantly,  as  their  bold 
hearts  bade  them. 

Then  said  the  fiddler,  "  Go  we  now  into 
the  hall,  that  the  Huns  deem  we  be  all 
dead  from  this  torment,  albeit  some  among 
them  shall  yet  feel  our  might." 

Giselher,  the  youth,  of  Burgundy,  said, 
"It  is  daybreak,  I  ween.  A  cool  wind 
bloweth.  God  grant  we  may  see  happier 
days.  My  sister  Kriemhild  hath  bidden 
us  to  a  doleful  hightide." 

One  of  them  spake,  "I  see  the  dawn. 
Since  we  can  do  no  better,  arm  you,  ye 
knights,  for  battle,  that,  come  we  never 
hence,  we  may  die  with  honor." 

Etzel  deemed  the  guests  were  all  dead 
of  their  travail  and  the  stress  of  the  fire. 
But  six  hundred  bold  men  yet  lived. 
Never  king  had  better  knights.  They 
that  kept  ward  over  the  strangers  had 
seen  that  some  were  left,  albeit  the  princes 
and  their  men  had  suffered  loss  and  dole. 
They  saw  many  that  walked  up  and  down 
in  the  house. 

They  told  Kriemhild  that  many  were 
left  alive,  but  the  queen  answered,  "It 
cannot  be.  None  could  live  in  that  fire. 
I  trow  they  all  lie  dead." 

The  kings  and  their  men  had  still  gladly 
asked  for  mercy,  had  there  been  any  to 
show  it.  But  there  was  none  in  the  whole 
country  of  th«  Huns.  Wherefore  they 
avenged  their  death  with  willing  hand. 

They  were  greeted  early  in  the  morning 
with  a  fierce  onslaught,  and  came  in  great 
scathe.  Stark  spears  were  hurled  at  them. 
Well  the  knights  within  stood  on  their 
defence. 

Etzel's  men  were  the  bolder,  that  they 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


might  win  Kriemhild's  fee.  Thereto, 
they  obeyed  the  king  gladly;  but  soon  they 
looked  on  death. 

One  might  tell  marvels  of  her  gifts  and 
promises.  She  bade  them  bear  forth  red 
gold  upon  shields,  and  gave  thereof  to  all 
that  desired  it,  or  would  take  it.  So 
great  treasure  was  never  given  against 
foemen. 

The  host  of  warriors  came  armed  to 
the  hall.  The  fiddler  said,  "We  are  here. 
I  never  was  gladder  to  see  any  knights 
than  those  that  have  taken  the  king's  gold 
to  our  hurt." 

Not  a  few  of  them  cried  out,  "Come 
nigher,  ye  heroes!  Do  your  worst,  and 
make  an  end  quickly,  for  here  are  none 
but  must  die." 

Soon  their  bucklers  were  filled  full  of 
darts.  What  shall  I  say  more?  Twelve 
hundred  warriors  strove  once  and  again 
to  win  entrance.  The  guests  cooled  their 
hardihood  with  wounds.  None  could 
part  the  strife.  The  blood  flowed  from 
death-deep  wounds.  Many  were  slain. 
Each  bewailed  some  friend.  All  Etzel's 
worthy  knights  perished.  Their  kinsmen 
sorrowed  bitterly. 


HOW    GUNTHER,    HAGEN,    AND    KRIEMHILD 
WERE   SLAIN 

THEREUPON  Sir  Dietrich  went  and  got 
his  harness  himself.  Old  Hildebrand 
helped  to  arm  him.  The  strong  man  wept 
so  loud  that  the  house  rang  with  his  voice. 
But  soon  he  was  of  stout  heart  again,  as 
beseemed  a  hero.  He  did  on  his  armor  in 
wrath.  He  took  a  fine-tempered  shield  in 
his  hand,  and  they  hasted  to  the  place — 
he  and  Master  Hildebrand. 

Then  said  Hagen  of  Trony,  "I  see  Sir 
Dietrich  yonder.  He  cometh  to  avenge 
his  great  loss.  This  day  will  show  which 
of  us  twain  is  the  better  man.  Howso 
stark  of  body  and  grim  Sir  Dietrich  may 
deem  him,  I  doubt  not  but  I  shall  stand 
against  him,  if  he  seek  vengeance."  So 
spake  Hagen. 

Dietrich,  that  was  with  Hildebrand, 
heard  him.  He  came  where  both  the 


knights  stood  outside  the  house,  leaning 
against  the  wall.  Good  Dietrich  laid  down 
his  shield,  and,  moved  with  deep  woe,  he 
said,  "  Why  hast  thou  so  entreated  a  home- 
less knight?  What  had  I  done  to  thee? 
Thou  hast  ended  all  my  joy.  Thou 
deemedst  it  too  little  to  have  slain  Rudeger 
to  our  scathe;  now  thou  hast  robbed  me 
of  all  my  men.  I  had  never  done  the  like 
to  you,  O  knights.  Think  on  yourselves, 
and  your  loss — the  death  of  your  friends, 
and  your  travail.  By  reason  thereof  are 
ye  not  heavy  of  your  cheer?  Alack! 
how  bitter  to  me  is  Rudeger's  death! 
There  was  never  such  woe  in  this  world. 
Ye  have  done  evilly  by  me  and  by  your- 
selves. All  the  joy  I  had  ye  have  slain. 
How  shall  I  ever  mourn  enough  for  all  my 
kinsmen?" 

"We  are  not  alone  to  blame,"  answered 
Hagen.  ' '  Your  knights  came  hither  armed 
and  ready,  with  a  great  host.  Methinketh 
the  tale  hath  not  been  told  thee  aright." 

"What  shall  I  believe  then?  Hilde- 
brand said  that  when  my  knights  of 
Amelung  begged  you  to  give  them  Rude- 
ger's body,  ye  answered  mockingly  as 
they  stood  below." 

Then  said  the  prince  of  Rhineland, 
"They  told  me  they  were  come  to  bear 
Rudeger  hence.  I  denied  them,  not  to 
anger  thy  men,  but  to  grieve  Etzel  withal. 
Whereat  Wolf  hart  flew  in  a  passion." 

Said  the  prince  of  Bern,  "There  is  noth- 
ing for  it.  Of  thy  knightliness,  atone  to 
me  for  the  wrong  thou  hast  done  me,  and 
I  will  avenge  it  no  further.  Yield  thee 
captive,  thee  and  thy  man,  and  I  will  de- 
fend thee  to  the  uttermost,  against  the 
wrath  of  the  Huns.  Thou  wilt  find  me 
faithful  and  true." 

"God  in  heaven  forbid,"  cried  Hagen, 
"that  two  knights,  armed  as  we  are  for 
battle,  should  yield  them  to  thee !  I  would 
hold  it  a  great  shame,  and  ill  dene." 

"Deny  me  not,"  said  Dietrich.  "Ye 
have  made  me  heavy-hearted  enow,  O 
Gunther  and  Hagen;  and  it  is  no  more 
than  just  that  ye  make  it  good.  I  swear 
to  you,  and  give  you  my  hand  thereon, 
that  I  will  ride  back  with  you  to  your 
own  country.  I  will  bring  you  safely 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


thither,  or  die  with  you,  and  forget  my 
great  wrong  for  your  sakes." 

"Ask  us  no  more,"  said  Hagen.  "It 
were  a  shameful  tale  to  tell  of  us,  that 
two  such  bold  men  yielded  them  captive. 
I  see  none  save  Hildebrand  by  thy  side." 

Hildebrand  answered,  "Ye  would  do 
well  to  take  my  master's  terms;  the  hour 
will  come,  or  long,  when  ye  would  gladly 
take  them,  but  may  not  have  them." 

"Certes,  I  had  liefer  do  it,"  said  Hagen, 
"than  flee  mine  adversary  like  a  coward, 
as  thou  didst,  Master  Hildebrand.  By 
my  troth,  I  deemed  thou  hadst  withstood 
a  foeman  better." 

Cried  Hildebrand,  "Thou  needest  not 
to  twit  me.  Who  was  it  that,  by  the  wask- 
stone,  sat  upon  his  shield  when  Walter 
of  Spain  slew  so  many  of  his  kinsmen? 
Thou,  thyself,  art  not  void  of  blame." 

Said  Sir  Dietrich  then,  "It  beseemeth 
not  warriors  to  fight  with  words  like  old 
women.  I  forbid  thee,  Master  Hilde- 
brand, to  say  more.  Homeless  knight 
that  I  am,  I  have  grief  enow.  Tell  me 
now,  Sir  Hagen,  what  ye  good  knights 
said  when  ye  saw  me  coming  armed.  Was 
it  not  that  thou  alone  wouldst  defy 
me?" 

"Thou  hast  guessed  rightly,"  answered 
Hagen.  "I  am  ready  to  prove  it  with 
swift  blows,  if  my  Nibelung  sword  break 
not.  I  am  wroth  that  ye  would  have  had 
us  yield  us  captive." 

When  Dietrich  heard  grim  Hagen's 
mind,  he  caught  up  his  shield,  and  sprang 
up  the  steps.  The  Nibelung  sword  rang 
loud  on  his  mail.  Sir  Dietrich  knew  well 
that  the  bold  man  was  fierce.  The  prince 
of  Bern  warded  off  the  strokes.  He  needed 
not  to  learn  that  Hagen  was  a  valiant 
knight.  Thereto,  he  feared  stark  Bal- 
mung.  But  ever  and  anon  he  struck  out 
warily,  till  he  had  overcome  Hagen  in  the 
strife.  He  gave  him  a  wound  that  was 
deep  and  wide.  Then  thought  Sir  Diet- 
rich, "Thy  long  travail  hath  made  thee 
weak.  I  had  little  honor  hi  thy  death. 
Liefer  will  I  take  thee  captive."  Not 
lightly  did  he  prevail.  He  threw  down 
his  shield.  He  was  stark  and  bold,  and 
he  caught  Hagen  of  Trony  in  his  arms. 


So  the  valiant  man  was  vanquished.     King 
Gunther  grieved  sore. 

Dietrich  bound  Hagen,  and  led  him  to 
the  queen,  and  delivered  into  her  hand 
the  boldest  knight  that  ever  bare  a  sword. 
After  her  bitter  dole,  she  was  glad  enow. 
She  bowed  before  the  knight  for  joy. 
"Blest  be  thou  in  soul  and  body.  Thou 
hast  made  good  to  me  all  my  woe.  I 
will  thank  thee  till  my  dying  day." 

Then  said  Dietrich,  "Let  him  live, 
noble  queen.  His  service  may  yet  atone 
to  thee  for  what  he  hath  done  to  thy  hurt. 
Take  not  vengeance  on  him  for  that  he  is 
bound." 

She  bade  them  lead  Hagen  to  a  dungeon. 
There  he  lay  locked  up,  and  none  saw  him. 

Then  King  Gunther  called  aloud, 
"Where  is  the  hero  of  Bern?  He  hath 
done  me  a  grievous  wrong." 

Sir  Dietrich  went  to  meet  him.  Gun- 
ther was  a  man  of  might.  He  tarried  not, 
but  ran  toward  him  from  the  hall.  Loud 
was  the  din  of  their  swords. 

Howso  famed  Dietrich  was  from  afore- 
time, Gunther  was  so  wroth  and  so  fell, 
and  so  bitterly  his  foeman,  by  reason  of 
the  wrong  he  had  endured,  that  it  was  a 
marvel  Sir  Dietrich  came  off  alive.  They 
were  stark  and  mighty  men  both.  Palace 
and  towers  echoed  with  their  blows,  as 
their  swift  swords  hewed  their  good  hel- 
mets. A  high-hearted  king  was  Gunther. ' 

But  the  knight  of  Bern  overcame  him,  as 
he  had  done  Hagen .  His  blood  gushed  from 
his  harness  by  reason  of  the  good  sword 
that  Dietrich  carried.  Yet  Gunther  had 
defended  him  well,  for  all  he  was  so  weary. 

The  knight  was  bound  by  Dietrich's 
hand,  albeit  a  king  should  never  wear 
such  bonds.  Dietrich  deemed,  if  he  left 
Gunther  and  his  man  free,  they  would 
kill  all  they  met. 

He  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him 
before  Kriemhild.  Her  sorrow  was  lighter 
when  she  saw  him.  She  said,  "Thou  art 
welcome,  King  Gunther." 

He   answered,    "I   would   thank   thee, 

dear  sister,  if  thy  greeting  were  in  love. 

But  I  know  thy  fierce  mind,  and  that  thou 

mockest  me  and  Hagen." 

Then  said  the  prince  of  Bern,  "Most 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


93 


high  queen,  there  were  never  nobler  cap- 
tives than  these  I  have  delivered  here  into 
thy  hands.  Let  the  homeless  knights  live 
for  my  sake." 

She  promised  him  she  would  do  it  gladly, 
and  good  Dietrich  went  forth  weeping. 
Yet  soon  Etzel's  wife  took  grim  vengeance, 
by  reason  whereof  both  the  valiant  men 
perished.  She  kept  them  in  dungeons, 
apart,  that  neither  saw  the  other  again  till 
she  bore  her  brother's  head  to  Hagen. 
Certes,  Kriemhild's  vengeance  was  bitter. 

The  queen  went  to  Hagen,  and  spake 
angrily  to  the  knight.  "Give  me  back 
what  thou  hast  taken  from  me,  and  ye 
may  both  win  back  alive  to  Burgundy." 

But  grim  Hagen  answered,  "Thy  words 
are  wasted,  noble  queen.  I  have  sworn 
to  show  the  hoard  to  none.  While  one 
of  my  masters  liveth,  none  other  shall 
have  it." 

"I  will  end  the  matter,"  said  the  queen. 
Then  she  bade  them  slay  her  brother,  and 
they  smote  off  his  head.  She  carried  it 
by  the  hair  to  the  knight  of  Trony.  He 
was  grieved  enow. 

When  the  sorrowful  man  saw  his  mas- 
ter's head,  he  cried  to  Kriemhild,  "Thou 
hast  wrought  all  thy  will.  It  hath  fallen 
out  as  I  deemed  it  must.  The  noble  King 
of  Burgundy  is  dead,  and  Giselher  the 
youth,  and  eke  Gernot.  None  knoweth  of 
the  treasure  now  save  God  and  me.  Thou 
shalt  never  see  it,  devil  that  thou  art." 

She  said,  "  I  come  off  ill  in  the  reckoning. 
I  will  keep  Siegfried's  sword  at  the  least. 
My  true  love  wore  it  when  I  saw  him  last. 
My  bitterest  heart's  dole  was  for  him." 


She  drew  it  from  the  sheath.  He  could 
not  hinder  it.  She  purposed  to  slay  the 
knight.  She  lifted  it  high  with  both 
hands,  and  smote  off  his  head. 

King  Etzel  saw  it,  and  sorrowed. 
"Alack!"  cried  the  king.  "The  best 
warrior  that  ever  rode  to  battle,  or 
bore  a  shield,  hath  fallen  by  the  hand  of  a 
woman !  Albeit  I  was  his  foeman,  I  must 
grieve." 

Then  said  Master  Hildebrand,  "His 
death  shall  not  profit  her.  I  care  not  what 
come  of  it.  Though  I  came  in  scathe  by 
him  myself,  I  will  avenge  the  death  of  the 
bold  knight  of  Trony." 

Hildebrand  sprang  fiercely  at  Kriemhild, 
and  slew  her  with  his  sword.  She  suffered 
sore  by  his  anger.  Her  loud  cry  helped 
her  not. 

Dead  bodies  lay  stretched  over  all. 
The  queen  was  hewn  in  pieces.  Etzel  and 
Dietrich  began  to  weep.  They  wailed 
piteously  for  kinsmen  and  vassals.  Mickle 
valor  lay  there  slain.  The  folk  were  dole- 
ful and  dreary. 

The  end  of  the  king's  hightide  was  woe, 
even  as,  at  the  last,  all  joy  turneth  to 
sorrow. 

I  know  not  what  fell  after.  Christian 
and  heathen,  wife,  man,  and  maid,  were 
seen  weeping  and  mourning  for  their 
friends. 

I  WILL  TELL  YOU  NO  MORE.      LET  THE  DEAD 

LIE.      HOWEVER  IT  FARED  AFTER  WITH 

THE    HUNS,    MY   TALE    IS    ENDED. 

THIS    IS    THE    FALL    OF    THE 

NIBELUNGS. 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  (c.  1400-1471) 

King  Arthur,  who  was  originally  a  semi-mythical  hero  of  Celtic  story,  became  during  the  Middle 
Ages  the  personification  of  the  virtues  embodied  in  the  institution  of  Chivalry,  and  his  knights  forming 
the  famous  Round  Table  engaged  in  the  romantic  adventures  which  satisfied  the  desire  of  the  people 
of  the  period  for  the  strange  and  the  new.  Toward  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  Sir  Thomas  Malory 
collected  these  various  stories,  reduced  them  to  something  like  connected  form,  and  published  them  in 
vigorous  prose  as  one  of  the  books  to  be  issued  from  Caxton's  printing  press.  The  adventures 
of  the  Knights— Sir  Gawain,  Sir  Tristan,  Sir  Percival,  Sir  Galahad,  and  the  winning  of  the  Holy  Grail- 
are  recounted  in  the  several  books,  their  prowess  and  the  whole  romantic  background  of  chivalry  are 
described,  and  the  gradual  decay  of  this  noble  spirit  through  the  presence  of  evil  in  the  heart  of  the  court 
is  related  with  the  concluding  book,  here  given,  which  tells  of  the  destruction  of  this  ideal  life  and  the 
passing  of  the  great  king. 

Tennyson's  "Idylls  of  the  King"  draw  upon  Malory  for  materials  for  an  elaborate  poetic  treatment 
Of  the  same  theme. 


'94 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


THE  DEATH  OF  ARTHUR 
BOOK  XXI  OF  THE  MORTE  D'ARTHTJR 

I 

As  SIR  Mordredwas  ruler  of  all  England, 
he  caused  letters  to  be  made,  as  though 
they  came  from  beyond  the  sea,  and  the 
letters  specified  that  King  Arthur  was 
slain  in  battle  with  Sir  Launcelot;  where- 
fore Sir  Mordred  made  a  parliament,  and 
called  the  lords  together,  and  there  he 
made  them  to  chuse  him  King,  and  so  he 
was  crowned  at  Canterbury,  and  held  a 
feast  there  fifteen  days.  And  afterward 
he  drew  him  to  Winchester,  and  there  he 
took  Queen  Guenever,  and  said  plainly 
that  he  would  wed  her,  which  was  his 
uncle's  wife,  and  his  father's  wife:  and  so 
he  made  ready  for  the  feast,  and  a  day 
prefixed  that  they  should  be  wedded. 
Wherefore  Queen  Guenever  was  passing 
heavy,  but  she  durst  not  discover  her 
heart;  but  spake  fair,  and  agreed  to  Sir 
Mordred's  will.  Then  she  desired  of  Sir 
Mordred  for  to  go  to  London,  for  to  buy 
all  manner  of  things  that  belonged  unto 
the  wedding:  and,  because  of  her  fair 
speech,  Sir  Mordred  trusted  her  well 
enough,  and  gave  her  leave  to  go;  and, 
when  she  came  to  London,  suddenly,  in  all 
haste  possible,  she  stuffed  it  with  all  man- 
ner of  victuals,  and  well  garnished  it  with 
men,  and  so  kept  it.  Then,  when  Sir 
Mordred  wist  and  understood  how  he 
was  deceived,  he  was  passing  wroth  out  of 
measure.  And,  to  make  short  tale,  he 
went  and  laid  a  mighty  siege  about  the 
Tower  of  London,  and  made  many  great 
assaults  thereat,  and  threw  many  great 
engines  unto  them,  and  shot  great  guns. 
But  all  might  not  prevail  Sir  Mordred. 
For  Queen  Guenever  would  never,  for  fair 
speech,  nor  for  foul,  trust  to  come  in  his 
hands  again.  And  then  came  the  Bishop 
of  Canterbury,  the  which  was  a  noble  clerk, 
and  a  holy  man,  and  thus  he  said  to  Sir 
Mordred,  "Sir,  what  will  ye  do?  will  ye 
first  displease  God,  and  after  shame  your- 
self, and  all  knighthood?  Is  not  King 
Arthur  your  uncle,  no  further  but  your 
mother's  brother,  and  on  her  himself  King 


Arthur  begat  you  upon  his  own  sister, 
therefore  how  may  ye  wed  your  father's 
wife?  Sir,"  said  the  noble  clerk,  "leave 
this  opinion,  or  else  I  shall  curse  you  with 
book,  bell,  and  candle."  "  Do  thy  worst," 
said  Sir  Mordred,  "wit  thou  well  that  I 
utterly  defy  thee."  "  Sir,"  said  the  bishop, 
"I  shall  not  fear  me  to  do  that  I  ought  t<> 
do.  Also,  whereas  ye  noise  that  my  lord 
King  Arthur  is  slain,  it  is  not  so;  and  there- 
fore ye  will  make  an  abominable  work  in 
this  land."  "Peace!  thou  false  priest," 
said  Sir  Mordred,  "for  and  thou  chafe 
me  any  more,  I  shall  make  thy  head  to  be 
stricken  off."  So  the  bishop  departed, 
and  did  the  curse  in  the  most  orgulous 
wise  that  might  be  done.  And  then  Sir 
Mordred  sought  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury, 
for  to  have  slain  him.  And  when  the 
bishop  heard  that,  he  fled,  and  took  part 
of  his  goods  with  him,  and  went  nigh  unto 
Glastonbury,  and  there  he  was  a  religious 
hermit  in  a  chapel,  and  lived  in  poverty, 
and  in  holy  prayers.  For  well  he  under- 
stood that  a  mischievous  war  was  near  at 
hand.  Then  Sir  Mordred  sought  upon 
Queen  Guenever,  by  letters  and  messages, 
and  by  fair  means  and  foul,  for  to  have 
her  come  out  of  the  Tower  of  London. 
But  all  this  availed  him  not,  for  she  an- 
swered him  shortly,  openly  and  privily, 
that  she  had  lever  slay  herself  than  to  be 
married  with  him.  Then  came  word  to 
Sir  Mordred,  that  King  Arthur  had  raised 
the  siege  from  Sir  Launcelot,  and  that  he 
was  coming  homeward  with  a  great  host, 
for  to  be  avenged  upon  Sir  Mordred. 
Wherefore  Sir  Mordred  made  to  write 
letters  unto  all  the  barony  of  this  land, 
arid  much  people  drew  unto  him;  for  then 
was  the  common  voice  among  them,  that 
with  King  Arthur  was  none  other  life  but 
war  and  strife,  and  with  Sir  Mordred  was 
great  joy  and  bliss.  Thus  was  King 
Arthur  deprived,  and  evil  said  of;  and 
many  there  were  that  King  Arthur  had 
made  up  of  nought,  and  had  given  them 
lands,  might  not  say  of  him  then  a  good 
word. 

Lo!  ye  all  Englishmen  see  what  a  mis- 
chief here  was:  for  he  that  was  the  noblest 
knight  and  king  of  the  world,  and  most 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


loved  the  fellowship  of  noble  knights  and 
men  of  worship,  and  by  him  they  were  all 
upholden.  Now,  might  not  we  English- 
men hold  us  content  with  him;  lo!  this 
was  the  old  custom  and  usage  of  this  land. 
And  also  men  say,  that  we  of  this  land 
have  not  yet  lost  nor  forgotten  the  custom 
and  usage.  Alas!  alas!  this  is  a  great  de- 
fault of  us  Englishmen,  for  there  may  noth- 
ing please  us  no  term.  And  so  fared  the 
people  at  that  time.  For  they  were  better 
pleased  with  Sir  Mordred  than  they  were 
with  King  Arthur;  and  much  people  drew 
unto  Sir  Mordred,  and  said  they  would 
abide  with  him,  for  better  and  for  worse. 
And  so  Sir  Mordred  drew  with  great  haste 
toward  Dover,  for  there  he  heard  say  that 
King  Arthur  would  arrive;  and  so  he 
thought  to  beat  his  own  father  from  his 
lands:  and  the  most  part  of  ail  England 
held  with  Sir  Mordred,  the  people  were  so 
new-fangled. 

II 

AND  so,  as  Sir  Mordred  was  at  Dover, 
with  his  host,  there  came  King  Arthur, 
with  a  great  many  ships,  galleys,  and 
carracks;  and  there  was  Sir  Mordred  ready, 
waiting  upon  his  landing,  to  hinder  his 
own  father  to  land  upon  the  land  that  he 
was  king  of.  Then  was  there  launching 
of  great  boats  and  small,  and  all  were  full 
of  noble  men  of  arms ;  and  there  was  much 
slaughter  of  gentle  knights,  and  many  a 
full  bold  baron  was  laid  full  low,  on  both 
parties.  But  King  Arthur  was  so  cour- 
ageous, that  there  might  no  manner  of 
knight  let  him  to  land,  and  his  knights 
fiercely  followed  him;  and  so  they  landed, 
maugre  Sir  Mordred  and  all  his  power: 
and  put  Sir  Mordred  back,  that  he  fled, 
and  all  his  people.  So  when  this  battle 
was  done,  King  Arthur  let  bury  his  people 
that  were  dead:  and  then  was  the  noble 
knight,  Sir  Gawaine,  found  in  a  great 
boat,  lying  more  than  half  dead.  When 
King  Arthur  wist  that  Sir  Gawaine  was 
laid  so  low,  he  went  unto  him,  and  there 
the  King  made  sorrow  out  of  measure,  and 
took  Sir  Gawaine  in  his  arms,  and  thrice 
he  swooned:  and  then  he  came  to  himself 


again,  and  said,  "Alas!  my  sister's  son, 
here  now  thou  liest,  the  man  in  the  world 
that  I  loved  most;  and  now  is  my  joy  gone. 
For  now,  my  nephew,  Sir  Gawaine,  I  will 
discover  me  unto  your  person:  in  Sir 
Launcelot  and  you  I  most  had  my  joy 
and  mine  affiance,  and  now  have  I  lost 
my  joy  of  you  both,  wherefore  all  mine 
earthly  joy  is  gone  from  me."  "  My  uncle, 
King  Arthur,"  said  Sir  Gawaine,  "wit  you 
well,  that  my  death's-day  is  come,  and 
all  is  through  mine  own  hastiness  and 
wilfulness;  for  I  am  smitten  upon  the  old 
wound  that  Sir  Launcelot  du  Lake  gave 
me,  of  the  which  I  feel  that  I  must  die; 
and  if  Sir  Launcelot  had  been  with  you  as 
he  was,  this  unhappy  war  had  never  be- 
gun, and  of  all  this  I  myself  am  causer: 
for  Sir  Launcelot  and  his  blood,  through 
their  prowess,  held  all  your  cankered  ene- 
mies in  subjection  and  danger.  And  now," 
said  Sir  Gawaine,  "ye  shall  miss  Sir 
Launcelot:  but,  alas!  I  would  not  accord 
with  him,  and  therefore,"  said  Sir  Ga- 
waine, "I  pray  you,  fair  uncle,  that  I 
may  have  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  that  I 
may  write  unto  Sir  Launcelot  a  letter  with 
mine  own  hands."  And  when  paper  and 
ink  was  brought,  Sir  Gawaine  was  set 
up,  weakly,  by  King  Arthur,  for  he  had 
been  shriven  a  little  before,  and  he  wrote 
thus: 

"UNTO  SIR  LAUNCELOT,  flower  of  all 
noble  knights  that  ever  I  heard  of  or  saw 
in  my  days. 

"I,  Sir  Gawaine,  King  Lot's  son,  of 
Orkney,  sister's  son  unto  the  noble  King 
Arthur,  send  unto  thee,  greeting,  and  let 
thee  have  knowledge,  that  the  tenth 
day  of  May  I  was  smitten  upon  the  old 
wound  which  thou  gavest  me  before  the 
city  of  Benwicke;  and  through  the  same 
wound  thou  gavest  me  I  am  come  unto  my 
death-day,  and  I  will  that  all  the  world 
wit  that  I,  Sir  Gawaine,  knight  of  the 
Round  Table,  sought  my  death,  and  not 
through  thy  deserving,  but  it  was  mine 
own  seeking;  wherefore  I  beseech  thee, 
Sir  Launcelot,  for  to  return  again  unto  this 
realm,  and  see  my  tomb,  and  pray  some 
prayer,  more  or  less,  for  my  soul.  And 
that  same  day  that  I  wrote  this  letter  I 


96 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


was  hurt  to  the  death  in  the  same  wound, 
the  which  I  had  of  thy  hands,  Sir  Launce- 
lot.  For  of  a  nobler  man  might  I  not  be 
slain.  Also,  Sir  Launcelot,  for  all  the 
love  that  ever  was  between  us,  make  no 
tarrying,  but  come  over  the  sea  in  all  the 
haste  that  thou  mayest,  with  thy  noble 
knights,  and  rescue  that  noble  King  that 
made  thee  knight,  that  is  my  lord  and 
uncle,  King  Arthur,  for  he  is  full  straitly 
bestood  with  a  false  traitor,  which  is  my 
false  brother,  Sir  Mordred,  and  he  hath  let 
crown  himself  king,  and  he  would  have 
wedded  my  lady,  Queen  Guenever;  and 
so  had  he  done,  if  she  had  not  put  herself 
in  the  Tower  of  London.  And  so  the 
tenth  day  of  May  last  past,  my  lord  and 
uncle,  King  Arthur,  and  we,  all  landed 
upon  them  at  Dover,  and  there  we  put 
that  false  traitor,  Sir  Mordred,  to  flight; 
and  there  it  misfortuned  me  for  to  be 
stricken  upon  thy  stroke.  And,  at  the 
date  of  this  letter  was  written,  but  two 
hours  and  a  half  before  my  death,  written 
with  mine  own  hand,  and  so  subscribed 
with  part  of  my  heart's  blood,  and  I  re- 
quire thee,  as  thou  art  the  most  famous 
knight  of  the  world,  that  thou  wilt  see 
my  tomb." 

And  then  Sir  Gawaine  wept,  and  also 
King  Arthur  wept,  and  then  they  swooned 
both;  and  when  they  awaked  both,  the 
King  made  Sir  Gawaine  to  receive  his 
Saviour.  And  then  Sir  Gawaine  prayed 
the  King  to  send  for  Sir  Launcelot,  and 
to  cherish  him  above  all  other  knights. 
And  so,  at  the  hour  of  noon,  Sir  Gawaine 
betook  his  soul  into  the  hands  of  our  Lord 
God.  And  there  the  King  let  bury  him  in 
a  chapel  within  the  castle  of  Dover:  and 
there,  yet  unto  this  day,  all  men  may  see 
the  skull  of  Sir  Gawaine,  and  the  same 
wound  is  seen  that  Sir  Launcelot  gave 
him  in  battle.  Then  was  it  told  to  King 
Arthur  that  Sir  Mordred  had  pitched  a 
new  field  upon  Barendown,  and  on  the 
morrow  the  King  rode  thither  to  him,  and 
there  was  a  great  battle  between  them,  and 
much  people  were  slain  on  both  parts; 
but  at  the  last  King  Arthur's  party  stood 
best,  and  Sir  Mordred  and  his  party  fled 
Onto  Canterbury. 


Ill 

AND  then  the  King  searched  all  towns 
for  his  knights  that  were  slain,  and  made 
to  bury  them;  and  those  that  were  sore 
wounded  he  caused  them  to  be  salved 
with  soft  salves.  Then  much  people 
drew  unto  King  Arthur,  and  said  that  Sir 
Mordred  warred  on  King  Arthur  wrong- 
fully. And  then  the  King  drew  him  and 
with  his  host  down  unto  the  sea-side, 
westward,  unto  Salisbury,  and  there  was 
a  day  assigned  between  King  Arthur 
and  Sir  Mordred,  and  they  should  meet 
upon  a  down  beside  Salisbury,  and  not  far 
from  the  sea-side;  and  this  day  was  as- 
signed upon  a  Monday  after  Trinity 
Sunday,  whereof  King  Arthur  was  pass- 
ing glad,  that  he  might  be  avenged  upon 
that  traitor,  Sir  Mordred.  Then  Sir 
Mordred  raised  much  people  about  Lon- 
don, for  they  of  Kent,  Sussex,  and  Surrey, 
Essex,  and  Suffolk,  and  of  Norfolk,  held 
for  the  most  part  with  Sir  Mordred,  and 
many  a  noble  knight  drew  unto  Sir  Mor- 
dred, and  unto  King  Arthur;  but  they  that 
loved  Sir  Launcelot  drew  unto  Sir  Mordred. 

And  so,  upon  Trinity  Sunday,  at  night, 
King  Arthur  dreamed  a  right  wonderful 
dream,  and  that  was  this:  that  him  thought 
he  sat  upon  a  scaffold  in  a  chair,  and  the 
chair  was  fast  unto  a  wheel,  and  thereupon 
sat  King  Arthur,  in  the  richest  cloth  of 
gold  that  might  be  made;  and  the  King 
thought  there  was  under  him,  far  from  him, 
a  hideous  and  a  deep  black  water,  and 
therein  was  all  manner  of  serpents  and 
worms,  and  wild  beasts,  foul  and  horrible ; 
and  suddenly  the  King  thought  that  the 
wheel  turned  upside  down,  and  that  he 
fell  among  the  serpents  and  wild  beasts, 
and  every  beast  took  him  by  a  limb:  and 
then  the  King  cried,  as  he  lay  in  his  bed 
and  slept,  "Help!" 

And  then  knights,  squires,  and  yeomen 
awaked  the  King,  and  then  he  was  so 
amazed,  that  he  wist  not  where  he  was; 
and  then  he  fell  in  a  slumbering  again, 
not  sleeping,  nor  through  waking.  So 
King  Arthur  thought  there  came  Sir  Ga- 
waine unto  him  verily,  with  a  number  of 
fair  ladies  with  him;  and  so,  when  King 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


97 


Arthur  saw  him,  he  said,  "Welcome,  my 
sister's  son,  I  weened  thou  hast  been  dead, 
and  now  I  see  thee  alive;  much  am  I  be- 
holden unto  Almighty  Jesu.  Oh!  fair 
nephew,  and  my  sister's  son,  what  be  these 
ladies  that  be  come  hither  with  you?" 
"Sir,"  said  Sir  Gawaine,  "all  these  be 
the  ladies  for  whom  I  have  fought  when 
I  was  a  man  living;  and  all  these  are  those 
that  I  did  battle  for  in  a  rightwise  quarrel, 
and  God  hath  given  them  that  grace  at 
their  great  prayer,  because  I  did  battle 
for  them,  that  they  should  bring  me  hither 
to  you;  thus  much  hath  God  given  me 
leave  for  to  warn  you  of  your  death; 
for  and  ye  fight  as  to-morrow  with  Sir 
Mordred,  as  both  ye  have  assigned,  doubt 
ye  not  ye  must  be  slain,  and  the  most 
part  of  your  people,  on  both  parties:  and 
for  the  great  grace  and  goodness  that 
Almighty  Jesu  hath  unto  you,  and  for 
pity  of  you,  and  many  more  other  good 
men,  that  there  should  be  slain,  God 
hath  sent  me  unto  you,  of  His  most  special 
grace,  for  to  give  you  warning,  that  in  no 
wise  ye  do  battle  as  to-morrow,  but  that 
ye  take  a  treaty  for  a  month's  day,  and 
proffer  him  largely,  so  as  to-morrow  to  be 
put  in  a  delay;  for  within  a  month  shall 
come  Sir  Launcelot,  with  all  his  noble 
knights,  and  shall  rescue  you  worship- 
fully,  and  slay  Sir  Mordred  and  all  that 
ever  will  hold  him."  Then  Sir  Gawaine 
and  all  the  ladies  vanished.  And  anon 
the  King  called  upon  his  knights,  squires, 
and  yeomen,  and  charged  them  lightly 
to  fetch  his  noble  lords  and  wise  bishops 
unto  him;  and  when  they  were  come,  the 
King  told  them  his  vision,  what  Sir  Ga- 
waine told  him,  and  warned  him,  that  if 
he  fought  on  the  morrow  he  should  be  slam. 
Then  the  King  commanded  Sir  Lucan,  the 
butler;  and  his  brother,  Sir  Bedivere;  and 
two  bishops  with  them,  and  charged  them 
in  any  wise  if  they  might  take  a  treaty  for 
a  month  with  Sir  Mordred;  and  spare  not 
to  proffer  him  lands  and  goods,  as  much 
as  ye  think  best.  So  then  they  departed 
and  came  to  Sir  Mordred,  where  he  had 
a  grimly  host  of  a  hundred  thousand  men, 
and  thereby  entreated  Sir  Mordred  long 
time;  and,  at  the  last,  Sir  Mordred  was 


agreed  to  have  Cornwall  and  Kent  by 
King  Arthur's  days,  and  after  the  days  of 
King  Arthur  to  have  all  England  to  his 
obeisance. 


IV 

So  THEN  were  they  condescended  that 
King  Arthur  and  Sir  Mordred  should  meet 
between  both  their  hosts,  and  every  each 
of  them  should  bring  fourteen  persons; 
and  then  came  this  word  unto  King 
Arthur.  "And  then,"  said  he,  "I  am 
glad  that  this  is  done."  And  so  he  went 
into  the  field;  and  when  King  Arthur 
should  depart,  he  warned  all  his  host, 
"that  and  they  saw  any  sword  drawn, 
look  that  ye  come  on  fiercely,  and  slay 
that  traitor,  Sir  Mordred,  for  hi  nowise 
trust  him."  In  likewise  Sir  Mordred 
did  warn  his  host,  "  that  if  ye  see  any  man- 
ner of  sword  drawn,  look  that  ye  come  on 
fiercely,  and  so  slay  all  that  ever  standeth 
before  you;  for  in  nowise  I  will  not  trust 
for  this  treaty,  for  I  know  well  that  my 
father  will  be  avenged  upon  me."  And 
so  they  were  agreed  and  accorded  thor- 
oughly, and  wine  was  set,  and  they  drank. 
Right  so  came  an  adder  out  of  a  little 
heath  bush,  and  stung  a  knight  on  the 
foot.  And  when  the  knight  felt  him  stung, 
he  looked  down  and  saw  the  adder,  and 
then  he  drew  his  sword  to  slay  the  adder, 
and  thought  of  none  other  harm.  And 
when  the  hosts  on  both  parties  saw  that 
sword  drawn,  they  blew  beames,  trumpets, 
and  horns,  and  shouted  grimly.  And  so 
both  hosts  dressed  them  together,  and 
King  Arthur  took  his  horse,  and  said, 
"Alas!  this  unhappy  day:"  and  so. rode  he 
to  his  part.  And  so  Sir  Mordred  did  in 
likewise,  and  never  was  there  seen  a  more 
dolefuller  battle  in  no  Christian  land: 
for  there  was  but  rushing  and  riding,  foin- 
ing  and  striking,  and  many  a  grim  word 
was  there  spoken,  either  to  other,  and 
many  a  deadly  stroke.  But  alway  King 
Arthur  rode  throughout  the  battle  of  Sir 
Mordred  many  times,  and  did  there  right 
nobly  as  a  noble  King  should  do;  and  at 
all  tunes  he  never  fainted.  And  Sir  Mor- 
dred that  day  put  him  in  devoir  and  in 


98 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


great  peril,  and  thus  they  fought  all  the 
long  day,  and  never  stinted  till  the  noble 
knights  were  laid  to  the  cold  ground. 
And  ever  they  fought  still  till  it  was  nigh 
night,  and  by  that  time  was  there  a  hun- 
dred thousand  laid  dead  upon  the  down. 
Then  was  King  Arthur  wroth  out  of 
measure,  when  he  saw  his  people  so  slain 
from  him.  Then  the  King  looked  about 
him,  and  then  was  he  ware  that  of  all  his 
host,  and  of  his  good  knights,  were  left 
no  more  alive  but  two  knights;  that  were 
Sir  Lucan,  the  butler,  and  Sir  Bedivere,  his 
brother,  and  they  were  right  sore  wounded. 
"Jesu  mercy,"  said  King  Arthur,  "where 
are  all  my  noble  knights  become?  Alas! 
that  ever  I  should  see  this  doleful  day: 
for  now,"  said  King  Arthur,  "I  am  come 
unto  mine  end.  But  would  to  God  that 
I  wist  where  that  traitor,  Sir  Mordred,  is, 
which  hath  caused  all  this  mischief?" 
Then  was  King  Arthur  aware  where  Sir 
Mordred  leaned  upon  his  sword  among  a 
great  heap  of  dead  men.  "Now  give  me 
my  spear,"  said  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Lucan, 
"for  yonder  I  have  espied  the  traitor 
which  hath  wrought  all  this  woe."  "Sir, 
let  him  be,"  said  Sir  Lucan,  "for  he  is 
unhappy;  and  if  ye  pass  this  unhappy  day, 
ye  shall  be  right  well  revenged  upon  him. 
My  good  lord,  remember  well  your  dream 
that  ye  had  this  night,  and  what  the  spirit 
of  Sir  Gawaine  told  you  this  night;  yet 
God  of  his  great  goodness  hath  preserved 
you  hither,  therefore,  for  God's  sake,  my 
lord,  leave  off  by  this;  for,  blessed  be 
God,  ye  have  won  the  field,  for  here  we 
be  three  alive,  and  with  Sir  Mordred  is 
none  alive,  and  if  ye  leave  off  now  this 
wicked  day  of  destiny  is  done."  "Betide 
me  death,  betide  me  life,"  said  the  King; 
"now  I  see  him  yonder  alone,  he  shall 
never  escape  my  hands,  for  at  better  ad- 
vantage shall  I  never  have  him."  "God 
speed  you  well,"  said  Sir  Bedivere.  Then 
King  Arthur  gat  his  spear  in  both  his 
hands,  and  ran  toward  Sir  Mordred,  crying, 
"Traitor,  now  is  thy  death-day  come." 
And  when  Sir  Mordred  heard  King  Arthur, 
he  ran  unto  him  with  his  sword  drawn  in 
his  hand,  and  there  King  Arthur  smote 
Sir  Mordred  under  the  shield,  with  a  foin 


of  his  spear,  throughout  the  body  more 
than  a  fathom.  And  when  Sir  Mordred 
felt  that  he  had  his  death  wound,  he 
thrust  himself  with  all  the  might  that  he 
had  up  to  the  end  of  King  Arthur's  spear. 
And  right  so  he  smote  his  father  Arthur 
with  his  sword,  that  he  held  in  both  his 
hands,  on  the  side  of  the  head,  that  the 
sword  pierced  the  helmet  and  the  brain- 
pan. And  therewith  Sir  Mordred  fell 
down  stark  dead  to  the  earth,  and  the 
noble  King  Arthur  fell  in  a  swoon  to  the 
earth,  and  there  he  swooned  oftentimes. 
And  Sir  Lucan  and  Sir  Bedivere  often- 
times heaved  him  up,  and  so  weakly  they 
laid  him  between  them  both  unto  a  little 
chapel,  not  far  from  the  sea-side.  And 
when  the  King  was  there,  he  thought  him 
well  eased.  Then  heard  they  people  cry 
in  the  field.  "Now  go  thou,  Sir  Lucan," 
said  the  King,  "and  do  me  to  wit  what 
betokeneth  that  noise  in  the  field."  So 
Sir  Lucan  departed,  and  he  was  grievously 
wounded  in  many  places;  and  so,  as  he 
went,  he  saw  and  hearkened  by  the  moon- 
light, how  the  pilfers  and  robbers  were 
come  into  the  field,  for  to  pilfer  and  rob 
many  a  noble  knight  of  broaches  and 
beads,  of  many  a  good  ring,  and  of  many 
a  rich  jewel.  And  who  that  were  not 
dead  all  out,  there  they  slew  them  for  to 
have  their  harness,  and  their  riches.  And 
when  Sir  Lucan  understood  this  work,  he 
came  unto  the  King  as  soon  as  he  might, 
and  told  him  all  that  he  had  heard  and 
seen.  "Therefore,  by  mine  advice,"  said 
Sir  Lucan,  "it  is  best  that  we  bring  you 
unto  some  town."  "I  would  it  were  so," 
said  the  King. 


"Bux  I  may  not  stand,  my  head  acheth 
so.  Ah!  Sir  Launcelot,"  said  King  Ar- 
thur, "this  same  day  have  I  sore  missed 
thee;  alas!  that  ever  I  was  against  thee, 
for  now  have  I  my  death,  whereof  Sir 
Gawaine  warned  me  in  my  dream."  Then 
Sir  Lucan  took  up  King  Arthur  on  the 
one  part,  and  Sir  Bedivere  on  the  other 
part,  and  in  the  lifting  the  King  swooned. 
And  Sir  Lucan  fell  in  a  swoon  with  that 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE 


lift,  that  therewith  the  noble  knight's 
heart  burst.  And  when  King  Arthur 
came  to  himself  again,  he  beheld  Sir 
Lucan  how  he  lay  foaming  at  the  mouth. 
"Alas!"  said  King  Arthur,  "this  is  unto 
me  a  full  heavy  sight  for  to  see  this  noble 
duke  so  to  die  for  my  sake;  for  he  would 
have  holpen  me,  that  had  more  need  of 
help  than  I  have.  Alas!  he  would  not 
complain  him,  his  heart  was  so  set  for  to 
help  me.  Now,  Jesu,  have  mercy  upon 
his  soul."  Then  Sir  Bedivere  wept  for 
the  death  of  his  brother.  "Leave  this 
weeping  and  mourning,"  said  King  Arthur, 
"for  all  this  will  not  avail  me;  for  wit 
thou  well  I  might  live  myself,  the  death 
of  Sir  Lucan  would  grieve  me  evermore. 
But  my  time  hieth  fast,"  said  King  Arthur 
unto  Sir  Bedivere,  "therefore  take  thou 
Excalibur,  my  good  sword,  and  go  with  it 
unto  yonder  water-side;  and  when  thou 
comest  there,  I  charge  thee,  throw  my 
sword  into  that  water,  and  come  again  and 
tell  me  what  thou  shalt  see  there."  "My 
lord,"  said  Sir  Bedivere,  "your  command 
shall  be  done,  and  lightly  bring  you  word 
again."  And  so  Sir  Bedivere  departed, 
and  by  the  way  he  beheld  that  noble 
sword,  where  the  pommel  and  the  haft 
were  all  of  precious  stones.  And  then  he 
said  to  himself,  "  If  I  throw  this  rich  sword 
into  the  water,  thereof  shall  never  come 
good,  but  harm  and  loss."  And  then 
Sir  Bedivere  hid  Excalibur  under  a  tree, 
and  as  soon  as  he  might,  he  came  again 
unto  King  Arthur,  and  said  he  had  been 
at  the  water,  and  had  thrown  the  sword 
into  the  water.  "What  sawest  thou 
there?"  said  the  King.  "Sir,"  said  he, 
"I  saw  nothing  but  waves  and  wind." 
"That  is  untruly  said  of  thee,"  said  King 
Arthur,  "therefore  go  thou  lightly  and  do 
my  command,  as  thou  art  to  me  life  and 
dear,  spare  not  but  throw  it  in."  Then 
Sir  Bedivere  returned  again,  and  took  the 
sword  in  his  hand;  and  then  he  thought  it 
sin  and  shame  to  throw  away  that  noble 
sword:  and  so  after  he  hid  the  sword,  and 
returned  again,  and  told  to  the  King  that 
he  had  been  at  the  water  and  done  his 
command.  "What  saw  ye  there?"  said 
the  King.  "Sir,"  said  he,  "I  saw  nothing 


but  the  water  lap  and  waves  wan. "  "  Ah ! 
traitor,  untrue,"  said  King  Arthur,  "now 
hast  thou  betrayed  me  two  times,  who 
would  have  weened  that  thou  that  hast 
been  unto  me  so  self  and  dear,  and  thou 
art  named  a  noble  knight,  and  wouldest 
betray  me  for  the  rich  sword.  But  now 
go  again  lightly,  for  thy  long  tarrying 
putteth  me  in  great  jeopardy  of  my  life, 
for  I  have  taken  cold;  and  but  if  thou  do 
as  I  command  thee,  and  if  ever  I  may  see 
thee,  I  shall  slay  thee  with  mine  own 
hands,  for  thou  wouldest  for  my  rich 
sword  see  me  dead."  Then  Sir  Bedivere 
departed,  and  went  to  the  sword,  and 
lightly  took  it  up  and  went  to  the  water's 
side,  and  there  he  bound  the  girdle  about 
the  hilts.  And  then  he  threw  the  sword 
into  the  water  as  far  as  he  might,  and  there 
came  an  arm  and  a  hand  above  the  water, 
and  met  it  and  caught  it,  and  so  shook  it 
thrice  and  brandished.  And  then  the 
hand  vanished  away  with  the  sword  in  the 
water. 

So  Sir  Bedivere  came  again  to  the  King, 
and  told  him  what  he  had  seen.  "Alas!" 
said  the  King,  "help  me  from  hence; 
for  I  dread  me  I  have  tarried  over  long." 
Then  Sir  Bedivere  took  King  Arthur 
upon  his  back,  and  so  went  with  him  to  the 
water's  side;  and,  when  they  were  at  the 
water's  side,  even  fast  by  the  bank  hovered 
a  little  barge,  with  many  fair  ladies  in  it: 
and  among  them  all  was  a  queen,  and  all 
they  had  black  hoods;  and  they  wept  and 
shrieked  when  they  saw  King  Arthur. 

"Now  put  me  into  the  barge,"  said  the 
King.  And  so  he  did  softly,  and  there 
received  him  three  queens  with  great 
mourning;  and  so  these  three  queens  sat 
them  down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps  King 
Arthur  laid  his  head.  And  then  that 
queen  said,  "Ah!  dear  brother,  why  have 
ye  tarried  so  long  from  me?  Alas!  this 
wound  on  your  head  hath  taken  overmuch 
cold."  And  so  then  they  rowed  from  the 
land;  and  Sir  Bedivere  beheld  all  those 
ladies  go  from  him.  Then  Sir  Bedivere 
cried,  "Ah!  my  lord  Arthur,  what  shall 
become  of  me  now  ye  go  from  me,  and 
leave  me  here  alone  among  mine  ene- 
mies?" "Comfort  thyself,"  said  King 


100 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Arthur,  "and  do  as  well  as  thou  mayest; 
for  in  me  is  no  trust  for  to  trust  in:  for  I 
will  into  the  vale  of  Avallon,  for  to  heal 
me  of  my  grievous  wound;  and,  if  thou 
never  hear  more  of  me,  pray  for  my  soul." 
But  evermore  the  queens  and  the  ladies 
wept  and  shrieked,  that  it  was  pitiful  for 
to  hear  them:  and,  as  soon  as  Sir  Bedivere 
had  lost  the  sight  of  the  barge,  he  wept 
and  wailed,  and  so  took  the  forest,  and 
so  he  went  all  the  night;  and,  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  was  aware,  between  two  hills,  of  a 
chapel  and  a  hermitage. 

VI 

THEN  was  Sir  Bedivere  glad,  and  thither 
he  went;  and,  when  he  came  into  the 
chapel,  he  saw  where  lay  a  hermit  grovel- 
ling upon  all  fours  there,  fast  by  a  tomb 
newly  graven.  When  the  hermit  saw  Sir 
Bedivere  he  knew  him  well;  for  he  was,  but 
a  little  before,  Bishop  of  Canterbury,  that 
Sir  Mordred  had  banished  away.  "Sir," 
said  Sir  Bedivere,  "what  man  is  there 
buried  that  ye  pray  so  fast  for?"  "My 
fair  son,"  said  the  hermit,  "I  wot  not 
verily  but  by  deeming;  but  this  night,  at 
midnight,  here  came  a  great  number  of 
ladies,  which  brought  this  dead  corpse, 
and  prayed  me  to  bury  him;  and  here  they 
offered  a  hundred  tapers,  and  gave  me  a 
hundred  besants."  "  Alas ! "  said  Sir  Bedi- 
vere, "that  was  my  lord,  King  Arthur, 
that  here  lieth  buried  in  this  chapel." 
Then  Sir  Bedivere  swooned;  and,  when  he 
awoke,  he  prayed  the  hermit  that  he  might 
abide  with  him  here  still,  to  live  with 
fasting  and  prayers;  "For  from  hence  will 
I  never  go,"  said  Sir  Bedivere,  "by  my 
will;  but  all  the  days  of  my  life  here  to 
pray  for  my  lord,  King  Arthur."  "Ye 
are  welcome  to  me,"  said  the  hermit;  "for 
I  know  you  better  than  ye  ween  that  I  do : 
for  ye  are  that  bold  Bedivere,  and  the 
noble  duke  Sir  Lucan,  the  butler,  was  your 
own  brother." 

Then  Sir  Bedivere  told  the  hermit  all  as 
ye  heard  before.  So  Sir  Bedivere  abode 
there  still  with  the  hermit,  which  had  been 


before  the  Bishop  of  Canterbury:  and  there 
Sir  Bedivere  put  upon  him  poor  clothes, 
and  served  the  hermit  full  lowly  in  fasting 
and  in  prayers.  This  of  King  Arthur  I 
find  no  more  written  in  my  copy  of  the 
certainty  of  his  death:  but  thus  was  he 
led  away  in  a  barge,  wherein  were  three 
queens:  that  one  was  King  Arthur's  sister, 
Morgan  le  Fay;  the  other  was  the  Queen 
of  Northgalis;  and  the  third  was  the  Queen 
of  the  Waste  Lands.  And  there  was 
Nimue,  the  chief  Lady  of  the  Lake,  which 
had  wedded  Sir  Pelleas,  the  good  knight. 
And  this  lady  had  done  much  for  King 
Arthur;  for  she  would  never  suffer  Sir 
Pelleas  to  be  in  any  place  whereas  he 
should  be  in  danger  of  his  life:  and  so  he 
lived  to  the  uttermost  of  his  days  with  her 
in  great  rest.  More  of  the  death  of  King 
Arthur  could  I  never  find,  but  that  ladie? 
brought  him  unto  the  burials.  And  such 
one  was  buried  here,  that  the  hermit  bare 
witness,  that  sometimes  was  Bishop  of 
Canterbury:  but  yet  the  hermit  knew  not 
of  a  certain  that  it  was  verily  the  body  of 
King  Arthur.  For  this  tale  Sir  Bedivere, 
knight  of  the  Round  Table,  made  it  plainly 
to  be  written. 

VII 

SOME  men  yet  say,  in  many  parts  of 
England,  that  King  Arthur  is  not  dead; 
but  had  by  the  will  of  our  Lord  Jesu  Christ 
into  another  place:  and  men  say  that  he 
will  come  again,  and  he  shall  win  the  holy 
cross.  I  will  not  say  that  it  shall  be  so; 
but  rather  I  will  say,  that  here  in  this  world 
he  changed  his  life.  But  many  men  say 
that  there  is  written  upon  his  tomb  this 
verse: — 

Hie  jacet  Arthurus  rex  quondam,  rexque 
futurus. 

Thus  leave  we  here  Sir  Bedivere  with 
the  hermit,  that  dwelled  that  time  in  a 
chapel  beside  Glastonbury,  and  there  was 
his  hermitage;  and  so  they  lived  in  prayers, 
and  fastings,  and  great  abstinence. 


n 

NARRATIVE  POETRY 


ROBERT  BURNS  (1759-1796) 
IAM  O'SHANTER 

A  TALE 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  buke. 
— GAWIN  DOUGLAS. 

WHEN  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neibors,  neibors  meet 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate; 
While  we  sit  bousin  at  the  nappy 
And  gettin  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter: 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses.) 

O  Tam!  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  bletherin,  blusterin,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober; 
That  ilka  melder  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied,  that,  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in 

Boon; 

Or  catch't  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames!  it  gars  me  greet, 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 


How  mony  lengthened  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 

But  to  our  tale: — Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezin  finely, 
Wi'  reamin  swats  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony: 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious 
Wi'  secret  favors,  sweet,  and  precious: 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus: 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle 
Tarn  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy: 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleas- 
ure; 
Kings    may    be    blest,    but    Tam    was 

glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed; 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  forever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  tune  or  tide: 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride, — 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key- 

stane, 

That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 


101 


102 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blown  its  last; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd: 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, — 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, — 
Tarn  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  son- 
net, 

Whiles  glowrin  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares. 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikie  stane, 
Whare  drucken  Charlie  brak  's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder 'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll; 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze : 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn! 
What  dangers  thou  can'st  make  us  scorn! 
Wi'  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquebae  we'll  face  the  devil! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  wow!    Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance; 
Nae  cotillon  brent-new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels: 
A  winnock  bunker  in  the  east, 
There  sat  Auld  Nick  in  shape  o'  beast; 


A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge; 
He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. — 
Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  sleight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, 
By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns, 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  the  rape — 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted; 
Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled; 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft — 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft; 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd  and  curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious1 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew, 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross'd,  they 

cleekit, 

Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark! 

Now  Tarn,   O  Tarn!  had   thae  been 

queans, 

A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw- white  seven  teen  hunder  linen! — 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  aff  my  hurdies, 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies! 
But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Louping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  did  na  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tarn  ken'd  what  was  what  fu* 

brawlie; 

There  was  ae  winsom  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core 
(Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore: 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


103 


For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear) ; 
Her  cutty  sark  o'  Paisley  harn, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 
Ah!  little  kent  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  cof t  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('t  was  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cow'r, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  strang), 
And  how  Tarn  stood  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main: 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tarn  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark: 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke; 


As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 

When  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When  "Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 

So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skriech  and  hollo. 

Ah,  Tarn!  ah, Tarn!  thou'llgetthy  fairin! 
In  hell  they  '11  roast  thee  like  a  herrin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig: 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man,  and  mother's  son,  take  heed: 
Whene'er  to  Drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  Cutty-sarks  rin  in  your  mind, 
Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear; 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare. 

(i793) 
GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON  (1788-1824) 

Byron  was  a  man  whose  whole  life  and  character  seemed  made  up  of  spectacular  contrasts.  He  was 
a  poet  and  a  peer;  an  aristocrat,  proud  as  Satan,  yet  passionately  devoted  to  justice  and  liberty;  in  poetic 
theory  opposed  to  romanticism;  in  his  life,  and  much  of  his  poetry,  wildly  romantic;  to  the  casual  ob- 
server, merely  theatrical;  looked  at  closely,  truly  and  deeply  sincere. 

DON  JUAN 

FROM  CANTO  U 

"Don  Juan"  is  a  long  poem,  an  unfinished  mock  epic,  in  which  Byron  strangely  mingles  romance  with 
realism,  turning  with  disconcerting  ease  and  swiftness  from  pure  pathos  and  wild  beauty  to  pungent 
satire  and  brutal  fact.  The  hero  is  a  young  scapegrace  sent  upon  his  travels  by  a  doting  mother  who 
thinks  thus  to  save  him  from  evil  influences.  He  is  shipwrecked  upon  a  Turkish  island,  and  thereafter 
undergoes  many  strange  experiences. 

The  account  of  the  shipwreck,  in  Byron's  most  realistic  style,  is  built  upon  the  poet's  own  familiarity 
with  the  sea,  supplemented  by  a  wide  reading  of  accounts  of  shipwreck,  and  of  his  grandfather  Vice- 
Admiral  Byron's  narrative  of  a  voyage  around  the  world. 

'Twas  for  a  voyage  that  the  young  man 

was  meant, 

As  if  a  Spanish  ship  were  Noah's  ark, 
To  wean  him  from   the  wickedness  of 

earth, 
And  send  him  like  a  dove  of  promise  forth. 


VIII 


BUT  to  our  tale:  the  Donna  Inez  sent 
Her  son  to  Cadiz  only  to  embark : 
To  stay  there  had  not  answer'd  her  intent, 
But  why?— we  leave  the  reader  in  the  dark— 


104 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


IX 

Don  Juan  bade  his  valet  pack  his  things 
According  to  direction,  then  received 
A   lecture   and    some   money:   for   four 

springs 

He  was  to  travel;  and  though  Inez  grieved 
(As  every  kind  of  parting  has  its  stings), 
She  hoped  he  would  improve — perhaps 

believed: 

A  letter,  too,  she  gave  (he  never  read  it) 
Of  good  advice — and   two   or   three  of 

credit. 


x 

In  the  mean  time,  to  pass  her  hours  away, 
Brave  Inez  now  set  up  a  Sunday  school 
For  naughty  children,  who  would  rather 

play 

(Like  truant  rogues)  the  devil,  or  the  fool; 
Infants  of  three  years  old  were  taught  that 

day, 

Dunces  were  whipt,  or  set  upon  a  stool: 
The  great  success  of  Juan's  education, 
Spurr'd  her  to  teach  another  generation. 

XI 

Juan  embark'd — the  ship  got  under  way, 
The  wind  was  fair,   the  water  passing 

rough; 

A  devil  of  a  sea  rolls  in  that  bay, 
As  I,  who've  cross'd  it  oft,  know  well 

enough ; 
And,   standing  upon  deck,   the  dashing 

spray 

Flies  in  one's  face,  and  makes  it  weather- 
tough: 

And  there  he  stood  to  take,  and  take  again, 
His  first — perhaps  his  last — farewell  of 
Spain. 

xn 

I  can't  but  say  it  is  an  awkward  sight 
To  see  one's  native  land  receding  through 
The  growing  waters;  it  unmans  one  quite, 
Especially  when  life  is  rather  new: 
I   recollect   Great   Britain's   coast  looks 

white, 
But  almost  every  other  country's  blue, 


When  gazing  on  them,  mystified  by  dis- 
tance, 
We  enter  on  our  nautical  existence. 

XIII 

So  Juan  stood,  bewilder'd  on  the  deck: 
The   wind   sung,    cordage   strain'd,   and 

sailors  swore, 
And  the  ship  creak'd,  the  town  became 

a  speck, 
From  which  away  so  fair  and  fast  they 

bore. 

The  best  of  remedies  is  a  beef-steak 
Against  sea-sickness:  try  it,  sir,  before 
You  sneer,  and  I  assure  you  this  is  true, 
For  I  have  found  it  answer — so  may  you. 

XIV 

Don  Juan  stood,  and,  gazing  from  the 

stern, 

Beheld  his  native  Spain  receding  far: 
First  partings  form  a  lesson  hard  to  learn, 
Even  nations  feel  this  when  they  go  to  war ; 
There  is  a  sort  of  unexprest  concern, 
A  kind  of  shock  that  sets  one's  heart  ajar: 
At  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 
And  places,   one  keeps   looking  at   the 

steeple. 

xv 

But  Juan  had  got  many  things  to  leave, 
His  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  no  wife, 
So  that  he  had  much  better  cause  to  grieve 
Than  many  persons  more  advanced  in  life; 
And  if  we  now  and  then  a  sigh  must  heave 
At  quitting  even  those  we  quit  in  strife, 
No  doubt  we  weep  for  those  the  heart 

endears — 
That  is,  till  deeper  griefs  congeal  our  tears. 

XVI 

So  Juan  wept,  as  wept  the  captive  Jews 
By  Babel's  waters,  still  remembering  Sion: 
I'd  weep, — but  mine  is  not  a  weeping 

Muse, 
And  such  light  griefs  are  not  a  thing  to 

die  on; 

Young  men  should  travel,  if  but  to  amuse 
Themselves;    and    the    next    time    tb**w 

servants  tie  on 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


105 


Behind  their  carriages  their  new  port- 
manteau, 
Perhaps  it  may  be  lined  with  this  my  canto. 

XVII 

And  Juan  wept,  and  much  he  sigh'd  and 

thought, 
While  his  salt  tears  dropp'd  into  the  salt 

sea, 
"Sweets  to  the  sweet;"  (I  like  so  much  to 

quote; 
You    must    excuse    this    extract, — 't    is 

where  she, 
The    queen    of    Denmark,    for    Ophelia 

brought 
Flowers  to  the  grave;)  and,  sobbing  often, 

he 

Reflected  on  his  present  situation, 
And  seriously  resolved  on  reformation. 

XVIII 

"Farewell,  my  Spain!  a  long  farewell!"  he 

cried, 

"Perhaps  I  may  revisit  thee  no  more, 
But  die,  as  many  an  exiled  heart  hath  died, 
Of  its  own  thirst  to  see  again  thy  shore: 
Farewell,    where    Guadalquivir's    waters 

glide! 

Farewell,  my  mother!  and,  since  all  is  o'er, 
Farewell,    too,    dearest    Julia! (here 

he  drew 
Her  letter  out  again,  and  read  it  through.) 

XIX 

"And  oh!  if  e'er  I  should  forget,  I  swear — 
But  that's  impossible,  and  cannot  be — 
Sooner  shall  this  blue  ocean  melt  to  air, 
Sooner  shall  earth  resolve  itself  to  sea, 
Than  I  resign  thine  image,  oh,  my  fair! 
Or  think  of  any  thing  excepting  thee; 
A  mind  diseased  no  remedy  can  physic — 
(Here  the  ship  gave  a  lurch,  and  he  grew 
sea-sick.) 

xx 

"Sooner  shall  heaven  kiss  earth — (here  he 

fell  sicker) 

Oh,  Julia!  what  is  every  other  woe? — 
(For  God's  sake  let  me  have  a  glass  of 

liquor; 


Pedro,  Battista,  help  me  down  below.) 
Julia,    my    love! — (you    rascal,    Pedro, 

quicker !) — 

Oh,  Julia! — (this  curst  vessel  pitches  so) — • 
Beloved  Julia,  hear  me  still  beseeching!" 
(Here  he  grew  inarticulate  with  retching.) 

XXI 

He  felt  that  chilling  heaviness  of  heart, 
Or  rather  stomach,  which,  alas!  attends, 
Beyond  the  best  apothecary's  art, 
The  loss  of  love,  the  treachery  of  friends, 
Or  death  of  those  we  dote  on,  when  a  part 
Of  us  dies  with  them  as  each  fond  hope 

ends: 
No  doubt  he  would  have  been  much  more 

pathetic, 
But  the  sea  acted  as  a  strong  emetic. 

XXII 

Love's  a  capricious  power:  I've  known  it 

hold 
Out  through  a  lever  caused  \>y  its  own 

heat, 

But  be  much  puzzled  by  a  cough  and  cold, 
And  find  a  quinsy  very  hard  to  treat; 
Against  all  noble  maladies  he's  bold, 
But  vulgar  illnesses  don't  like  to  meet, 
Nor  that  a  sneeze  should  interrupt  his  sigh 
Nor  inflammations  redden  his  blind  eye. 

XXIII 

But  worst  of  all  is  nausea,  or  a  pain 
About  the  lower  region  of  the  bowels; 
Love,  who  heroically  breathes  a  vein, 
Shrinks  from  the  application  of  hot  towels, 
And  purgatives  are  dangerous  to  his  reign, 
Sea-sickness  death:  his  love  was  perfect, 

how  else 
Could  Juan's  passion,  while  the  billows 

roar, 
Resist  his  stomach,  ne'er  at  sea  before? 

XXIV 

The  ship,  call'd  the  most  holy  "Trinidada" 
Was  steering  duly  for  the  port  Leghorn; 
For  there  the  Spanish  family  Moncada 
Were  settled  long  ere  Juan's  sire  was  born: 


io6 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


They  were  relations,  and  for  them  he  had  a 
Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  morn 
Of  his  departure  had  been  sent  him  by 
His  Spanish  friends  for  those  in  Italy. 


xxv 

His  suite  consisted  of  three  servants  and 

A  tutor,  the  licentiate  Pedrillo, 

Who  several  languages  did  understand, 

But  now  lay  sick  and  speechless  on  his 
pillow, 

And,  rocking  in  his  hammock,  long'd  for 
land, 

His  headache  being  increased  by  every 
billow; 

And  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port- 
hole made 

His  berth  a  little  damp,  and  him  afraid. 


XXVI 

'T  was  not  without  some  reason,  for  the 

wind 

Increased  at  night,  until  it  blew  a  gale; 
And  though  't  was  not  much  to  a  naval 

mind, 
Some  landsmen  would  have  look'd  a  little 

pale, 

For  sailors  are,  in  fact,  a  different  kind: 
At  sunset  they  began  to  take  in  sail, 
For  the  sky  show'd  it  would  come  on  to 

blow, 
And  carry  away,  perhaps,  a  mast  or  so. 


XXVII 

At  one  o'clock  the  wind  with  sudden 
shift 

Threw  the  ship  right  into  the  trough  of  the 
sea, 

Which  struck  her  aft,  and  made  an  awk- 
ward rift, 

Started  the  stern-post,  also  shatter'd  the 

Whole  of  her  stern-frame,  and,  ere  she 
could  lift 

Herself  from  out  her  present  jeopardy, 

The  rudder  tore  away:  't  was  time  to 
sound 

The  pumps,  and  there  were  four  feet  water 
found. 


XXVIII 

One  gang  of  people  instantly  was  put 
Upon  the  pumps,  and  the  remainder  set 
To  get  up  part  of  the  cargo,  and  what  not; 
But  they  could  not  come  at  the  leak  as  yet; 
At  last  they  did  get  at  it  really,  but 
Still  their  salvation  was  an  even  bet: 
The  water  rush'd  through  in  a  way  quite 

puzzling, 
While  they  thrust  sheets,  shirts,  jackets, 

bales  of  muslin, 

XXIX 

Into  the  opening;  but  all  such  ingredients 
Would  have  been  vain,  and  they  must 

have  gone  down, 

Despite  of  all  their  efforts  and  expedients, 
But  for  the  pumps:  I'm  glad  to  make 

them  known 
To  all  the  brother  tars  who  may  have  need 

hence, 

For  fifty  tons  of  water  were  up  thrown 
By  them  per  hour,  and  they  had  all  been 

undone, 
But  for  the  maker,  Mr.  Mann,  of  London. 

xxx 

As  day  advanced  the  weather  seem'd  to 
abate, 

And  then  the  leak  they  reckon 'd  to  reduce, 

And  keep  the  ship  afloat,  though  three 
feet  yet 

Kept  two  hand  and  one  chain-pump  still  in 
use. 

The  wind  blew  fresh  again:  as  it  grew  late 

A  squall  came  on,  and  while  some  guns 
broke  loose, 

A  gust — which  all  descriptive  power  trans- 
cends— 

Laid  with  one  blast  the  ship  on  her  beam 
ends. 

XXXI 

There  she  lay,  motionless,  and  seem'd  up- 
set; 

The  water  left  the  hold,  and  wash'd  the 
decks, 

And  made  a  scene  men  do  not  soon  forget, 

For  they  remember  battles,  fires,  ana 
wrecks, 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


107 


Or  any  other  thing  that  brings  regret, 
Or  breaks  their  hopes,  or  hearts,  or  heads, 

or  necks: 
Thus  drownings  are  much  talk'd  of  by  the 

divers, 
And  swimmers,  who  may  chance  to  be 

survivors. 

XXXII 

Immediately  the  masts  were  cut  away, 
Both  main  and  mizen;  first  the  mizen 

went, 
The  main-mast  follow'd:  but  the  ship  still 

lay 

Like  a  mere  log,  and  baffled  our  intent. 
Foremast  and  bowsprit  were  cut  down,  and 

they 
Eased  her  at  last   (although  we  never 

meant 
To   part   with   all   till   every   hope   was 

blighted), 
And    then   with    violence    the   old   ship 

righted. 

xxxm 

It  may  be  easily  supposed,  while  this 
Was  going  on,  some  people  were  unquiet, 
That  passengers  would  find  it  much  amiss 
To  lose  their  lives,  as  well  as  spoil  their 

diet; 

That  even  the  able  seaman,  deeming  his 
Days  nearly  o'er,  might  be  disposed  to 

riot, 

As  upon  such  occasions  tars  will  ask 
For  grog,  and  sometimes  drink  rum  from 

the  cask. 

xxxiv 

There's  nought,  no  doubt,  so  much  the 
spirit  calms 

As  rum  and  true  religion:  thus  it  was, 

Some  plunder'd,  some  drank  spirits,  some 
sung  psalms, 

The  high  wind  made  the  treble,  and  as  bass 

The  hoarse  harsh  waves  kept  time;  fright 
cured  the  qualms 

Of  all  the  luckless  landsmen's  sea-sick 
maws: 

Strange  sounds  of  wailing,  blasphemy,  de- 
votion, 

Clamor'd  in  chorus  to  the  roaring  ocean. 


xxxv 

Perhaps  more  mischief  had  been  done, 

but  for 
Our  Juan,  who,  with  sense  beyond  his 

years, 

Got  to  the  spirit-room,  and  stood  before 
It  with  a  pair  of  pistols;  and  their  fears, 
As  if  Death  were  more  dreadful  by  his 

door 

Of  fire  than  water,  spite  of  oaths  and  tears, 
Kept  still  aloof  the  crew,  who,  ere  they 

sunk, 
Thought  it  would  be  becoming  to  die 

drunk. 


xxxvi 

"Give  us  more  grog,"  they  cried,  "for  it 

will  be 
All  one  an  hour  hence."    Juan  answer 'd, 

"No! 
'T  is  true  that  death  awaits  both  you  and 

me, 

But  let  us  die  like  men,  not  sink  below 
Like  brutes:" — and  thus  his  dangerous 

post  kept  he, 

And  none  liked  to  anticipate  the  blow; 
And  even  Pedrillo,  his  most  reverend  tutor, 
Was  for  some  rum  a  disappointed  suitor. 

XXXVII 

The  good  old  gentleman  was  quite  aghast, 
And  made  a  loud  and  pious  lamentation; 
Repented  all  his  sins,  and  made  a  last 
Irrevocable  vow  of  reformation; 
Nothing  should  tempt  him  more   (this 

peril  past) 

To  quit  his  academic  occupation, 
In  cloisters  of  the  classic  Salamanca, 
To  follow  Juan's  wake,  like  Sancho  Panca. 

XXXVIII 

But  now  there  came  a  flash  of  hope  once 

more; 
Day  broke,  and  the  wind  lull'd:  the  masts 

were  gone, 
The  leak  increased;  shoals  round  her,  but 

no  shore, 
The  vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 


io8 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


They  tried  the  pumps  again,  and  though 

before 
Their  desperate  efforts  seem'd  all  useless 

grown, 
A  glimpse  of  sunshine  set  some  hands  to 

bale— 
The  stronger  pump'd,  the  weaker 

thrumm'd  a  sail. 


xxxix 

Under  the  vessel's  keel  the  sail  was  past, 
And  for  the  moment  it  had  some  effect; 
But  with  a  leak,  and  not  a  stick  of  mast, 
Nor  rag  of  canvas,  what  could  they  ex- 
pect? 

But  still  't  is  best  to  struggle  to  the  last, 
'T  is  never  too  late  to  be  wholly  wreck'd: 
And  though  't  is  true  that  man  can  only 

die  once, 
'T  is  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 


XL 

There  winds  and  waves  had  hurl'd  them, 
and  from  thence, 

Without  their  will,  they  carried  them 
away; 

For  they  were  forced  with  steering  to  dis- 
pense, 

And  never  had  as  yet  a  quiet  day 

On  which  they  might  repose,  or  even 
commence 

A  jurymast  or  rudder,  or  could  say 

The  ship  would  swim  an  hour,  which,  by 
good  luck, 

Still  swam — though  not  exactly  like  a 
duck. 

XLI 

The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps,  was  rather  less, 
But  the  ship  labor'd  so,  they  scarce  could 

hope 

To  weather  out  much  longer;  the  distress 
Was  also  great  with  which  they  had  to  cope 
For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess 
Was  scant  enough:  in  vain  the  telescope 
Was  used — nor  sail  nor  shore  appear'd  in 

sight, 
Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming 

night. 


XLH 

Again    the    weather    threaten'd, — again 

blew 

A  gale,  and  in  the  fore  and  after  hold 
Water  appear'd;  yet,  though  the  people 

knew 
All  this,  the  most  were  patient,  and  some 

bold, 
Until  the  chains  and  leathers  were  worn 

through 
Of  all  our  pumps: — a  wreck  complete  she 

roll'd, 

At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose  mercies  are 
Like  human  beings  during  civil  war. 

XLHI 

Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tears 
In  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  the  captain,  he 
Could  do  no  more :  he  was  a  man  in  years, 
And  long  had  voyaged  through  many  a 

stormy  sea, 
And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not 

fears 

That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  woman's  be, 
But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  chil- 
dren, 

Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  be- 
wildering. 

XLIV 

The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now 
Fast  by  the  head;  and,  all  distinction  gone, 
Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  made  a 

vow 
Of  candles  to  their  saints — but  there  were 

none 
To  pay  them  with;  and  some  look'd  o'er 

the  bow; 
Some  hoisted  out  the  boats;  and  there  was 

one 

That  begg'd  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution, 
Who  told  him  to  be  damn'd — in  his  con- 
fusion. 

XLV 

Some  lash'd  them  in  their  hammocks;  some 

put  on 

Their  best  clothes,  as  if  going  to  a  fair; 
Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw 

the  sun. 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


109 


And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  and,  howling, 

tore  their  hair; 

And  others  went  on  as  they  had  begun, 
Getting  the  boats  out,  being  well  aware 
That  a  tight  boat  will  live  in  a  rough  sea, 
Unless  with  breakers  close  beneath  her  lee. 

XL  VI 

The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condi- 
tion, 

Having  been  several  days  in  great  dis- 
tress, 

'T  was  difficult  to  get  out  such  provision 

As  now  might  render  their  long  suffering 
less: 

Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition; 

Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather's 
stress: 

Two  casks  of  biscuit,  and  a  keg  of  butter, 

Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the 
cutter. 

XLVH 

But  in  the  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow 
Some  pounds  of  bread,  though  injured  by 

the  wet; 

Water,  a  twenty-gallon  cask  or  so; 
Six  flasks  of  wine;  and  they  contrived  to 

get 

A  portion  of  their  beef  up  from  below, 
And  with  a  piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met, 
But  scarce  enough  to  serve  them  for  a 

luncheon — 
Then  there  was  rum,  eight  gallons  in  a 

puncheon. 

XLvm 

The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnace, 

had 

Been  stove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale; 
And  the  long-boat's  condition  was  but  bad, 
As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a  sail, 
And  one  oar  for  a  mast,  which  a  young 

lad 
Threw  in  by  good  luck  over  the  ship's 

rail; 
And  two  boats  could  not  hold,  far  less  be 

stored, 
To  save  one  half  the  people  then  on  board. 


XLIX 

'T  was  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went 

down 

Over  the  waste  of  waters;  like  a  veil, 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose 

the  frown 

Of  one  whose  hate  is  mask'd  but  to  assail. 
Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was 

shown, 

And  grimly  darkled  o'er  the  faces  pale, 
And  the  dim  desolate  deep:  twelve  days 

had  Fear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was 

here. 


Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft, 
With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 
A  sort  of  thing  at  which  one  would  have 

laugh'd, 

If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be, 
Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have 

quaff'd, 

And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee, 
Half  epileptical,  and  half  hysterical: — 
Their  preservation  would  have  been  a 

miracle. 

LI 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hen- 
coops, spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast 

loose, 
That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling 

tars, 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great 

use: 
There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few 

stars, 
The  boats  put  off  o'ercrowded  with  their 

crews; 

She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port, 
And,  going  down  head  foremost — sunk, 

in  short. 

LII 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  fare- 
well- 
Then  shriek'd  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the 
brave, — 


no 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Then  some  leap'd  overboard  with  dreadful 

yell, 

As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave; 

And  the  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like  a 

hell, 
And  down  she  suck'd  with  her  the  whirling 

wave, 

Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 
And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

mi 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rush'd, 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 
Of  echoing  thunder;  and  then  all  was 

hush'd, 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless 

dash 

Of  billows;  but  at  intervals  there  gush'd, 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 
A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 

LIV 

The  boats,  as  stated,  had  got  off  before, 
And   in   them   crowded    several   of    the 

crew; 
And  yet  their  present  hope  was  hardly 

more 
Than  what  it  had  been,  for  so  strong  it 

blew 
There  was  slight  chance  of  reaching  any 

shore; 
And  then  they  were  too  many,  though  so 

few — 

Nine  in  the  cutter,  thirty  in  the  boat, 
Were  counted  in  them  when  they  got 

afloat. 


LV 

All  the  rest  perish'd;  near  two  hundred 

souls 
Had  left  their  bodies;  and  what's  worse, 

alas! 

When  over  Catholics  the  ocean  rolls, 
They  must  wait  several  weeks  before  a 

mass 

Takes  off  one  peck  of  purgatorial  coals, 
Because,  till  people  know  what's  come  to 

pass, 


They  won't  lay  out  their  money  on  the 

dead — 
It  costs  three  francs  for  every  mass  that's 

said. 

LVI 

Juan  got  into  the  long-boat,  and  there 

Contrived  to  help  Pedrillo  to  a  place; 

It  seem'd  as  if  they  had  exchanged  their 

care, 

For  Juan  wore  the  magisterial  face 
Which  courage  gives,  while  poor  Pedrillo's 

pair 

Of  eyes  were  crying  for  their  owner's  case: 
Battista,  though,  (a  name  call'd  shortly 

Tita) 
Was  lost  by  getting  at  some  aqua-vita. 

LVH 

Pedro,  his  valet,  too,  he  tried  to  save, 
But  the  same  cause,  conducive  to  his  loss, 
Left  him  so  drunk,  he  jump'd  into  the 

wave 

As  o'er  the  cutter's  edge  he  tried  to  cross, 
And  so  he  found  a  wine-and- watery  grave; 
They  could  not  rescue  him  although  so 

close, 

Because  the  sea  ran  higher  every  minute, 
And  for  the  boat — the  crew  kept  crowding 

in  it. 

LVIII 

A  small  old  spaniel, — which  had  been  Don 

Jose's, 
His  father's,  whom  he  loved,  as  ye  may 

think, 

For  on  such  things  the  memory  reposes 
With  tenderness — stood  howling  on  the 

brink, 
Knowing,    (dogs   have   such   intellectual 

noses!) 

No  doubt,  the  vessel  was  about  to  sink; 
And  Juan  caught  him  up,  and  ere  he 

stepp'd 
Off,  threw  him  in,  then  after  him  he  leap'd. 

LIX 

He  also  stuff'd  his  money  where  he  could 
About  his  person,  and  Pedrillo's  too, 
Who  let  him  do,  in  fact,  whate'er  he  would, 
Not  knowing  what  himself  to  say,  or  do, 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


As  every  rising  wave  his  dread  renew'd; 
But  Juan,  trusting  they  might  still  get 

through, 
And  deeming  there  were  remedies  for  any 

ill, 
Thus  re-embark'd  his  tutor  and  his  spaniel. 

LX 

'T  was  a  rough  night,  and  blew  so  stiffly 

yet, 
That  the  sail  was  becalm'd  between  the 

seas, 
Though  on  the  wave's  high  top  too  much 

to  set, 
They  dared  not  take  it  in  for  all  the 

breeze : 
Each  sea  curl'd  o'er  the  stern,  and  kept 

them  wet, 
And  made  them  bale  without  a  moment's 

ease, 
So  that  themselves  as  well  as  hopes  were 

damp'd, 
And  the  poor  little  cutter  quickly  swamp'd. 

LXI 

Nine  souls  more  went  in  her:  the  long-boat 

still 

Kept  above  water,  with  an  oar  for  mast, 
Two  blankets  stitch'd  together,  answering 

ill 

Instead  of  sail,  were  to  the  oar  made  fast: 
Though  every  wave  roll'd  menacing  to  fill, 
And  present  peril  all  before  surpass'd, 
They  grieved  for  those  who  perish' d  with 

the  cutter, 
And  also  for  the  biscuit-casks  and  butter. 

LXH 

The  sun  rose  red  and  fiery,  a  sure  sign 
Of  the  continuance  of  the  gale:  to  run 
Before  the  sea  until  it  should  grow  fine, 
Was  all  that  for  the  present  could  be  done: 
A  few  tea-spoonfuls  of    their  rum  and 

wine 

Were  served  out  to  the  people,  who  begun 
To  fault,  and  damaged  bread  wet  through 

the  bags, 
And  most  of  them  had  little  clothe*  but 

rags. 


Lxm 

They  counted  thirty,  crowded  in  a  space 
Which   left   scarce  room   for   motion   or 

exertion ; 

They  did  their  best  to  modify  their  case, 
One  half  sate  up,  though  numb'd  with  the 

immersion, 
While  t'  other  half  were  laid  down  in  their 

place, 
At  watch  and  watch;  thus,  shivering  like 

the  tertian 

Ague  in  its  cold  fit,  they  fill'd  their  boat, 
With  nothing  but  the  sky  for  a  great  coat. 

LXIV 

'T  is  very  certain  the  desire  of  life 
Prolongs  it:  this  is  obvious  to  physicians, 
When    patients,    neither    plagued    with 

friends  nor  wife, 

Survive   through   very  desperate  condi- 
tions, 
Because  they  still  can  hope,  nor  shines  the 

knife 
Nor  shears  of  Atropos  before  their  vis 

ions: 

Despair  of  all  recovery  spoils  longevity, 
And  makes  men's  miseries  of  alarming 
brevity. 

LXV 

'T  is  said  that  persons  living  on  annuities 
Are  longer  lived  than  others, — God  knows 

why, 
Unless  to  plague  the  grantors, — yet  so 

true  it  is, 

That  some,  I  really  think,  do  never  die; 
Of  any  creditors  the  worst  a  Jew  it  is, 
And  that's  their  mode  of  furnishing  supply: 
In  my  young  days  they  lent  me  cash  that 

way, 
Which  I  found  very  troublesome  to  pay. 

LXVI 

'T  is  thus  with  people  in  an  open  boat, 
They  live  upon  the  love  of  life,  and  bear 
More  than  can  be  believed,  or  even  thought, 
And  stand  like  rocks  the  tempest's  wear 
and  tear; 


£12 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


And  hardship  still  has  been  the  sailor's  lot, 
Since  Noah's  ark  went  cruising  here  and 

there; 

She  had  a  curious  crew  as  well  as  cargo, 
Like  the  first  old  Greek  privateer,   the 

"Argo." 

Lxvn 

But  man  is  a  carnivorous  production, 
And  must  have  meals,  at  least  one  meal  a 

day; 
He   cannot   live,   like   woodcocks,   upon 

suction, 
But,  like  the  shark  and  tiger,  must  have 

prey; 

Although  his  anatomical  construction 
Bears  vegetables,  in  a  grumbling  way, 
Your  laboring  people  think  beyond  all 

question, 

Beaf,  veal,  and  mutton,  better  for  di- 
gestion. 

Lxvni 

And  thus  it  was  with  this  our  hapless  crew; 
For  on  the  third  day  there  came  on  a  calm, 
And  though  at  first  their  strength  it 

might  renew, 

And  lying  on  their  weariness  like  balm, 
Lull'd  them  like  turtles  sleeping  on  the 

blue 
Of  ocean,  when  they  woke  they  felt  a 

qualm, 

And  fell  all  ravenously  on  their  provision, 
Instead  of  hoarding  it  with  due  precision. 

LXIX 

The  consequence  was  easily  foreseen — 
They  ate  up  all  they  had  and  drank  their 

wine, 

In  spite  of  all  remonstrances,  and  then 
On  what,  in  fact,  next  day  were  they  to 

dine? 
They  hoped  the  wind  would  rise,  these 

foolish  men! 
And  carry  them  to  shore;  these  hopes  were 

fine, 
But  as  they  had  but  one  oar,  and  that 

brittle, 
It  would  have  been  more  wise  to  save  their 

victual. 


LXX 

The  fourth  day  came,  but  not  a  breath  of 

air, 
And  Ocean  slumber'd  like  an  unwean'd 

child: 
The  fifth  day,  and  their  boat  lay  floating 

there, 
The  sea  and  sky  were  blue,  and  clear,  and 

mild — 
With  their  one  oar  (I  wish  they  had  had  a 

pair) 
What  could  they  do?  and  hunger's  rage 

grew  wild: 

So  Juan's  spaniel,  spite  of  his  entreating, 
Was  kill'd,  and  portion'd  out  for  present 

eating. 

LXXI 

On  the  sixth  day  they  fed  upon  his  hide, 
And  Juan,  who  had  still  refused,  because 
The  creature  was  his  father's  dog  that  died. 
Now  feeling  all  the  vulture  in  his  jaws, 
With  some  remorse  received  (though  first 

denied) 

As  a  great  favor  one  of  the  fore-paws, 
Which  he  divided  with  Pedrillo,  who 
Devour'd  it,  longing  for  the  other  too. 


LXXII 

The  seventh  day,  and  no  wind — the  burn- 
ing sun 

Blister'd  and  scorch'd,  and,  stagnant  on 
the  sea, 

They  lay  like  carcasses;  and  hope  was 
none, 

Save  in  the  breeze  that  came  not;  savagely 

They  glared  upon  each  other — all  was 
done, 

Water,  and  wine,  and  food, — and  you 
might  see 

The  longings  of  the  cannibal  arise 

(Although  they  spoke  not)  in  their  wolfish 
eyes. 

Lxxin 

At  length  one  whisper'd  his  companion, 

who 
Whisper'd    another,    and    thus    it    went 

round, 
And  then  into  a  hoarser  murmur  grew, 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


An   ominous,    and   wild,   and   desperate 

sound; 
And  when  his  comrade's  thought  each 

sufferer  knew, 
'T  was  but  his  own,  suppress'd  till  now,  he 

found: 
And  out  they  spoke  of  lots  for  flesh  and 

blood, 
And  who  should  die  to  be  his  fellow's  food. 

LXXIV 

But  ere  they  came  to  this,  they  that  day 
shared 

Some  leathern  caps,  and  what  remain'd 
of  shoes; 

And  then  they  look'd  around  them  and 
despair'd, 

And  none  to  be  the  sacrifice  would  choose; 

At  length  the  lots  were  torn  up,  and  pre- 
pared, 

But  of  materials  that  much  shock  the 
Muse — 

Having  no  paper,  for  the  want  of  better, 

They  took  by  force  from  Juan  Julia's 
letter. 

LXXV 

The  lots  were  made,  and  mark'd,  and 
mix'd,  and  handed, 

In  silent  horror,  and  their  distribution 

Lull'd  even  the  savage  hunger  which 
demanded, 

Like  the  Promethean  vulture,  this  pollu- 
tion; 

None  in  particular  had  sought  or  plann'd 
it, 

'T  was  nature  gnaw'd  them  to  this  reso- 
lution, 

By  which  none  were  permitted  to  be 
neuter — 

And  the  lot  fell  on  Juan's  luckless  tutor. 

LXXVI 

He  but  requested  to  be  bled  to  death: 
The   surgeon  had  his  instruments,   and 

bled 

Pedrillo,  and  so  gently  ebb'd  his  breath, 
You  hardly  could  perceive  when  he  was 

dead. 


He  died  as  born,  a  Catholic  in  faith, 

Like  most  in  the  belief  in  which  they  're 

bred, 

And  first  a  little  crucifix  he  kiss'd, 
And  then  held  out  his  jugular  and  wrist. 


LXXVHI 


The  sailors  ate  him,  all  save  three  or  four, 
Who  were  not  quite  so  fond  of  animal  food; 
To  these  was  added  Juan,  who,  before 
Refusing  his  own  spaniel,  hardly  could 
Feel   now  his   appetite   increased   much 


more; 

'T  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should, 
Even  in  extremity  of  their  disaster, 
Dine  with  them  on  his  pastor  and  his 

master. 

LXXIX 

'T  was  better  that  he  did  not;  for,  in  fact, 

The  consequence  was  awful  in  the  ex- 
treme; 

For  they,  who  were  most  ravenous  in  the 
act. 

Went  raging  mad — Lord!  how  they  did 
blaspheme! 

And  foam  and  roll,  with  strange  convul- 
sions rack'd, 

Drinking  salt-water  like  a  mountain- 
stream, 

Tearing,  and  grinning,  howling,  screech- 
ing, swearing, 

And,  with  hyaena-laughter,  died  despairing. 

LXXX 

Their  numbers  were  much  thinn'd  by  this 

infliction, 
And  all  the  rest  were  thin  enough,  Heaven 

knows; 

And  some  of  them  had  lost  their  recollec- 
tion, 
Happier  than   they  who   still  perceived 

their  woes; 

But  others  ponder 'd  on  a  new  dissection, 
As  if  not  warn'd  sufficiently  by  those 
Who  had  already  perish'd,  suffering  madly, 
For  having  used  their  appetites  so  sadly. 


114 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


LXXXH 

Of  poor  Pedrillo  something  still  remain'd, 
But    was    used    sparingly, — some    were 

afraid, 

And  others  still  their  appetites  constraint, 
Or  but  at  times  a  little  supper  made; 
All   except   Juan,    who    throughout   ab- 

stain'd, 
Chewing  a  piece  of  bamboo,  and  some 

lead: 
At  length  they  caught  two  boobies,  and 

a  noddy, 
And  then  they  left  off  eating  the  dead 

body. 

LXXXIII 

And  if  Pedrillo's  fate  should  shocking  be, 
Remember  Ugolino  condescends 
To  eat  the  head  of  his  arch-enemy 
The  moment  after  he  politely  ends 
His  tale :  if  foes  be  food  in  hell,  at  sea 
'T  is  surely  fair  to  dine  upon  our  friends, 
When  shipwreck's  short  allowance  grows 

too  scanty, 
Without  being  much  more  horrible  than 

Dante. 

LXXXIV 

And  the  same  night  there  fell  a  shower  of 

rain, 
For  which  their  mouths  gaped,  like  the 

cracks  of  earth 
When  dried  to  summer  dust;  till  taught 

by  pain, 
Men  really  know  not  what  good  water's 

worth; 

If  you  had  been  in  Turkey  or  in  Spain, 
Or  with  a  famish'd  boat's-crew  had  your 

berth, 

Or  in  the  desert  heard  the  camel's  bell, 
You'd  wish  yourself  where  Truth  is — in  a 

well. 

LXXXV 

It  pour'd  down  torrents,  but  they  were  not 

richer 

Until  they  found  a  ragged  piece  of  sheet, 
Which  served  them  as  a  sort  of  spongy 

pitcher, 


And  when  they  deem'd  its  moisture  was 

complete, 
They  wrung  it  out,  and  though  a  thirsty 

ditcher 
Might  not  have  thought  the  scanty  draught 

so  sweet 

As  a  full  pot  of  porter,  to  their  thinking 
They  ne'er  till  now  had  known  the  joys 

of  drinking. 

LXXXVI 

And  their  baked  lips,  with  many  a  bloody 

crack, 
Suck'd  in  the  moisture,  which  like  nectar 

stream'd: 
Their   throats   were   ovens,    their   swoln 

tongues  were  black, 
As  the  rich  man's  in  hell,  who  vainly 

scream'd 
To  beg  the  beggar,  who  could  not  rain 

back 
A  drop  of  dew,  when  every  drop  had 

seem'd 
To    taste   of   heaven — If    this   be    true, 

indeed, 
Some    Christians    have    a    comfortable 

creed. 

LXXXVTI 

There  were  two  fathers  in  this  ghastly 

crew, 
And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom 

the  one 

Was  more  robust  and  hardy  to  the  view, 
But  he  died  early;  and  when  he  was  gone, 
His  nearest  messmate  told  his  sire,  who 

threw 
One  glance  on  him,  and  said,  "  Heaven's 

will  be  done ! 

I  can  do  nothing,"  and  he  saw  him  thrown 
Into  the  deep  without  a  tear  or  groan. 

LXXXVIII 

The  other  father  had  a  weaklier  child, 
Of  a  soft  cheek,  and  aspect  delicate; 
But  the  boy  bore  up  long,  and  with  a  mild 
And  patient  spirit  held  aloof  his  fate; 
Little   he   said,   and  now  and   then  he 

smiled, 
As  if  to  win  a  part  from  off  the  weight 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


He  saw  increasing  on  his  father's  heart, 
With  the  deep  deadly  thought,  that  they 
must  part. 

LXXXIX 

And  o'er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never 

raised 
His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  the 

foam 
From   his   pale   lips,    and   ever   on   him 

gazed, 
And  when  the  wish'd-for  shower  at  length 

was  come, 
And  the  boy's  eyes,  which  the  dull  film 

half  glazed, 
Brighten'd,  and  for  a  moment  seem'd  to 

roam, 
He  squeezed  from  out  a  rag  some  drops 

of  rain 
Into  his  dying  child's  mouth — but  in  vain. 


xc 

The   boy   expired — the   father   held   the 

clay, 
And  look'd  upon  it  long,  and  when  at 

last 
Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burthen 

lay 
Stiff  on  his  heart,  and  pulse  and  hope  were 

past, 

He  watch'd  it  wistfully,  until  away 
'T  was  borne  by  the  rude  wave  wherein 

't  was  cast; 
Then  he  himself  sunk  down  all  dumb  and 

shivering, 
And  gave  no  sign  of  life,  save  his  limbs 

quivering. 

xci 

Now  overhead  a  rainbow,  bursting  through 
The  scattering  clouds,  shone,  spanning  the 

dark  sea, 
Resting  its  bright  base  on  the  quivering 

blue; 

And  all  within  its  arch  appear'd  to  be 
Clearer  than  that  without,  and  its  wide 

hue 
Wax'd  broad  and  waving,  like  a  banner 

free, 


Then  changed  like  to  a  bow  that's  bent, 

and  then 
Forsook  the  dim  eyes  of  these  shipwreck'd 

men. 

xcn 

It  changed,  of  course;  a  heavenly  cameleon, 
The  airy  child  of  vapor  and  the  sun, 
Brought  forth  in  purple,  cradled  in  ver- 
milion, 
Baptized  in  molten  gold,  and  swathed  in 

dun, 
Glittering   like   crescents   o'er  a  Turk's 

pavilion, 

And  blending  every  color  into  one, 
Just  like  a  black  eye  in  a  recent  scuffle 
(For  sometimes  we  must  box  without  the 
muffle). 

xcm 

Our  shipwreck'd   seamen    thought   it   a 

good  omen — 

It  is  as  well  to  think  so,  now  and  then; 
'T  was  an  old  custom  of  the  Greek  and 

Roman, 
And   may   become   of   great   advantage 

when 
Folks  are  discouraged;  and  most  surely  no 

men 
Had  greater  need   to  nerve   themselves 

again 
Than  these,  and  so  this  rainbow  look'd 

like  hope — 
Quite  a  celestial  kaleidoscope. 

xcrv 

About  this  time  a  beautiful  white  bird, 
Webfooted,  not  unlike  a  dove  in  size 
And  plumage   (probably  it  might  have 

err'd 
Upon  its  course),  pass'd  oft  before  their 

eyes, 
And  tried  to  perch,  although  it  saw  and 

heard 
The  men  within  the  boat,  and  in  this 

guise 
It  came  and  went,  and  flutter'd  round 

them  till 
Night  fell: — this  seem'd  a  better  omen 

still. 


n6 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


xcv 

But  in  this  case  I  also  must  remark, 

'T  was  well  this  bird  of  promise  did  not 

perch, 
Because    the    tackle    of    our    shatter'd 

bark 

Was  not  so  safe  for  roosting  as  a  church; 
And  had  it  been  the  dove  from  Noah's 

ark, 
Returning    there    from    her    successful 

search, 
Which  in  their  way  that  moment  chanced 

to  fall, 
They  would  have  eat  her,  olive-branch 

and  all. 


xcvi 

With    twilight    it    again    came    on    to 

blow, 
But  not  with  violence;  the  stars  shone 

out, 
The  boat  made  way;  yet  now  they  were 

so  low, 
They  knew  not  where  nor  what  they  were 

about; 
Some  fancied  they  saw  land,  and  some 

said  "No!" 
The  frequent  fog-banks  gave  them  cause 

to  doubt — 
Some  swore  that   they  heard  breakers, 

others  guns, 
And  all  mistook  about  the  latter  once. 


xcvn 

As  morning  broke,  the  light  wind   died 

away, 
When  he  who  had  the  watch  sung  out 

and  swore, 
If   'twas   not   land    that  rose  with  the 

sun's  ray, 
He  wish'd  that  land  he  never  might  see 

more; 
And  the  rest  rubb'd  their  eyes,  and  saw 

a  bay, 
Or  thought  they  saw,  and  shaped  their 

course  for  shore; 

For  shore  it  was,  and  gradually  grew 
Distinct,  and  high  and  palpable  to  view. 


xcvni 

And  then  of  these  some  part  burst  into 

tears, 

And  others,  looking  with  a  stupid  stare, 
Could  not  yet  separate  their  hopes  from 

fears, 
And  seem'd  as   if   they   had   no  further 

care; 
While  a  few  pray'd — (the  first  time   for 

some  years) — 
And  at   the  bottom  of   the  boat  three 

were 
Asleep;  they  shooK.  them  by  the  hand 

and  head, 
And  tried  to  awaken  them,  but  found  them 

dead. 

xcrx 

The  day  before,  fast  sleeping  on  the 
water, 

They  found  a  turtle  of  the  hawk's-bill 
kind, 

And  by  good  fortune,  gliding  softly, 
caught  her, 

Which  yielded  a  day's  life,  and  to  their 
mind 

Proved  even  still  a  more  nutritious  mat- 
ter, 

Because  it  left  encouragement  behind: 

They  thought  that  in  such  perils,  more 
than  chance 

Had  sent  them  this  for  their  deliverance. 


The   land   appear'd   a   high   and   rocky 

coast, 
And  higher  grew  the  mountains  as  they 

drew, 
Set  by  a  current,  toward  it:  they  were 

lost 

In  various  conjectures,  for  none  knew 
To  what  part  of  the  earth  they  had  been 

tost, 
So  changeable  had  been  the  winds  that 

blew; 
Some  thought  it  was  Mount  ^Etna,  some 

the  highlands 
Of    Candia,   Cyprus,    Rhodes,    or  other 

islands. 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


117 


ci 

Meantime  the  current,  with  a  rising  gale, 
Still  set  them  onwards  to  the  welcome 

shore, 
Like  Charon's  bark  of  specters,  dull  and 

pale: 
Their  living  freight  was  now  reduced  to 

four, 
And    three    dead,    whom    their    strength 

could  not  avail 

To  heave  into  the  deep  with  those  before, 
Though    the    two    sharks    still    follow'd 

them,  and  dash'd 
The  spray  into  their  faces  as  they  splash'd. 

en 

Famine,  despair,  cold,   thirst,  and  heat 

had  done 
Their  work  on  them  by  turns,  and  thinn'd 

them  to 
Such  things  a  mother  had  not  known  her 

son 

Amidst  the  skeletons  of  that  gaunt  crew: 
By  night  chill'd,  by  day  scorch'd,  thus 

one  by  one 

They  perish'd,  until  wither'd  to  these  few, 
But  chiefly  by  a  species  of  self-slaughter, 
In  washing  down  Pedrillo  with  salt  water. 

CHI 

As  they  drew  nigh  the  land,  which  now 

was  seen 

Unequal  in  its  aspect  here  and  there, 
They  felt  the  freshness  of  its  growing  green, 
That  waved  in  forest-tops,  and  smooth'd 

the  air, 
And  fell  upon  their  glazed  eyes  like  a 

screen 
From  glistening  waves,  and  skies  so  hot 

and  bare — 
Lovely  seem'd  any  object   that  should 

sweep 
Away  the  vast,  salt,  dread,  eternal  deep. 

civ 

The  shore  look'd  wild,  without  a  trace  of 

man, 

And  girt  by  formidable  waves;  but  they 
Were  mad  for  land,  and  thus  their  course 

they  ran. 


Though  right  ahead  the  roaring  breakers 
lay: 

A  reef  between  them  also  now  began 

To  show  its  boiling  surf  and  bounding 
spray, 

But  finding  no  place  for  their  landing 
better, 

They  ran  the  boat  for  shore, — and  over- 
set her. 

cv 

But  hi  his  native  stream,  the  Guadalquivir, 

Juan  to  lave  his  youthful  limbs  was  wont; 

And  having  learnt  to  swim  in  that  sweet 
river, 

Had  often  turn'd  the  art  to  some  account: 

A  better  swimmer  you  could  scarce  see 
ever, 

He  could,  perhaps,  have  pass'd  the  Helles- 
pont, 

As  once  (a  feat  on  which  ourselves  we 
prided) 

Leander,  Mr.  Ekenhead,  and  I  did. 

cvi 

So  here,   though   faint,   emaciated,   and 

stark, 
He  buoy'd  his  boyish  limbs,  and  strove 

to  ply 
With  the  quick  wave,  and  gain,  ere  it  was 

dark, 
The  beach  which  lay  before  him,  high 

and  dry: 

The  greatest  danger  here  was  from  a  shark, 
That  carried  off  his  neighbor  by  the  thigh ; 
As  for  the  other  two,  they  could  not  swim, 
So  nobody  arrived  on  shore  but  him. 

cvn 

Nor  yet  had  he  arrived  but  for  the  oar, 
Which,  providentially  for  him,  was  wash'd 
Just  as  his  feeble  arms  could  strike  no  more 
And  the  hard  wave  o'erwhelm'd  him  as 

't  was  dash'd 

Within  his  grasp;  he  clung  to  it,  and  sore 
The  waters  beat  while  he  thereto  was 

lash'd; 

At  last,  with  swimming,  wading,  scramb- 
ling, he 

Roll'd  on  the  beach,  half  senseless,  fror* 
the  sea: 


n8 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


CVIII 

There,  breathless,  with  his  digging  nails 

he  clung 

Fast  to  the  sand,  lest  the  returning  wave 
From   whose  reluctant  roar  his  life  he 

wrung, 
Should  suck  him  back  to  her  insatiate 

grave: 
And  there  he  lay,  full  length,  where  he 

was  flung, 

Before  the  entrance  of  a  cliffworn  cave, 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  feel  its  pain, 
And  deem  that  it  was  saved,  perhaps  in 

vain. 

(1819) 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  (1809-1892) 

THE  "REVENGE" 
A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET 


AT  FLORES  in  the  Azores   Sir  Richard 

Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  fluttered  bird,  came 

flying  from  far  away; 
"Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea!  we  have 

sighted  fifty-three!" 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard:  "  'Fore 

God  I  am  no  coward; 
But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships 

are  out  of  gear, 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must  fly, 

but  follow  quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line;  can  we  fight 

with  fifty-three?" 

n 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville:  "I 
know  you  are  no  coward; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with 
them  again. 

But  I  've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are 
lying  sick  ashore. 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left 
them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devil- 
doms of  Spaip." 


ni 

So  Lord  Howard  passed  away  with  five 

ships  of  war  that  day, 
Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent 

summer  heaven; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick 

men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down 

below: 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 
And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they 

were  not  left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumb-screw  and  the  stake,  for  the 

glory  of  the  Lord. 


IV 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work 

the  ship  and  to  fight 
And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the 

Spaniard  came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the 

weather  bow. 

"Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die! 
There  '11  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this 

sun  be  set." 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again:  "We  be  all 

good  English  men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the 

children  of  the  devil, 
For  I  never  turned  my  back  upon  Don  or 

devil  yet." 


Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laughed,  and  we 

roared  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  "Revenge"  ran  on  sheer  into  the 

heart  of  the  foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and 

her  ninety  sick  below; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half 

to  the  left  were  seen, 
And  the  little  "Revenge"  ran  on  through 

the  long  sea-lane  between. 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


VI 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  looked  down 

from  their  decks  and  laughed, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at 

the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delayed 
By  their  mountain-like  "San  Philip"  that, 

of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her 

yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we 

stayed. 

VII 

And  while  now  the  great  "San  Philip" 
hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon 
the  starboard  lay, 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them 
all. 

VIII 

But  anon  the  great  "San  Philip,"  she  be- 
thought herself  and  went, 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had 
left  her  ill  content; 

And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 
they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 

For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their 
pikes  and  musqueteers, 

And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a 
dog  that  shakes  his  ears 

When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 


IX 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars 

came  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the 

one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their 

high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with 

her  battle-thunder  and  flame; 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew 

back  with  her  dead  and  her  shame. 


For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shat- 
tered,  and  so  could  fight  us  no 
more — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this 
in  the  world  before? 


For  he  said,  "Fight  on!  fight  on!" 
Though  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 
And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short 

summer  night  was  gone, 
With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left 

the  deck, 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing 

it  suddenly  dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the 

side  and  the  head, 
And  he  said,  "Fight  on!  fight  on!" 

XI 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 

smiled  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay 

round  us  all  in  a  ring; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for 

they  feared  that  we  still  could  sting, 
So  they  watched  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maimed  for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the 

desperate  strife; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were 

most  of  them  stark  and  cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and 

the  powder  was  all  of  it  spent; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying 

over  the  side; 

But  Sir  Richard  cried  hi  his  English  pride: 
"We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day 

and  a  night 

As  may  never  be  fought  again! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die — does  it  matter  when? 
Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner — sink 

her,  split  her  in  twain! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the 

hands  of  Spain!" 


I2O 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


XII 

And  the  gunner  said,  "Ay,  ay,"  but  the 

seamen  made  reply: 
"We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we 

yield,  to  let  us  go; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike 

another  blow." 
And  the  lion  thete  lay  dying,  and  they 

yielded  to  the  foe. 

xni 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flag- 
ship bore  him  then, 

Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir 
Richard  caught  at  last, 

And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their 
courtly  foreign  grace; 

But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried: 

"I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a 
valiant  man  and  true; 

I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is 
bound  to  do. 

With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Gren- 
villedie!" 

And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

XIV 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been 

so  valiant  and  true, 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of 

Spam  so  cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and 

his  English  few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man?    He  was  devil  for 

aught  they  knew, 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down 

into  the  deep, 
And"  they  manned  the  "Revenge"  with  a 

swarthier  alien  crew, 
And  away  she  sailed  with  her  loss  and 

longed  for  her  own; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had 

ruined  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the 

weather  to  moan, 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great 

gale  blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised 

by  an  earthquake  grew, 


Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails 
and  their  masts  and  their  flags, 

And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the 
shot-shattered  navy  of  Spain, 

And  the  little  "Revenge"  herself  went  down 
by  the  island  crags 

To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

(1878) 

ROBERT  BROWNING  (1812-1889) 
HERVE  RIEL 

ON  THE  sea  and  at  the  Hogue.  sixteen  hun- 
dred ninety-two, 

Did  the  English  fight  the  French, — woe 
to  France! 

And,  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter 
through  the  blue, 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a 

shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  Saint 
Malo  on  the  Ranee, 

With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

ii 

'T  was  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the 

victor  in  full  chase; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his 

great  ship,  Damfreville; 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all; 
And  they  signaled  to  the  place 
"Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 
Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us 

quick — or,  quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will!" 

in 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk 

and  leapt  on  board; 
"Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships 

like  these  to  pass?"  laughed  they: 
"Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the 

passage  scarred  and  scored, 
Shall   the   "Formidable"   here   with   her 

twelve  and  eighty  guns 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the 

single  narrow  way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  't  is  ticklish  for  a  craft 

of  twenty  tons, 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


121 


And  with  flow  at  full  beside? 

Now,  't  is  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring?    Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay!" 


IV 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate: 

"Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would 

you  have  them  take  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  to- 
gether stern  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground!" 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
"Not  a  minute  more  to  wait! 
Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the 

vessels  on  the  beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 


"Give  the  word!"    But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard; 
For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in 

struck  amid  all  these 
— A  Captain?    A  Lieutenant?    A  Mate — 

first,  second,  third? 
No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by 

Tourville  for  the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the 
Croisickese. 


VI 

"What  mockery  or  malice  have  we 

here?"  cried  Herve  Riel: 
' '  Are  you  mad ,  you  Malouins?    Are  you 

cowards,  fools,  or  rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who 

took  the  soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow, 

every  swell 

'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where 
the  river  disembogues? 


Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?    Is  it 

love  the  lying's  for? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot 

of  Solidor. 
Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?    That 

were  worse  than  fifty  Hogues! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth! 

Sirs,  believe  me  there's  a  way! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 
Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  'Formidable'  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 
And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a 

passage  I  know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 

— Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life, — here's  my 
head!"  cries  Herve  Riel. 

VII 

Not  a~minute  more  to  wait. 
"Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the 

squadron!"  cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north- wind,  by  God's  grace! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were 
the  wide  sea's  profound! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that 
grates  the  ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past, 
All  are  harbored  to  the  last, 
And  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollas  "Anchor!" 

— sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come — too  late! 

VIII 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm: 
They  see  the  green. trees  wave 
On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 

Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm 


122 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


"Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away! 
'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding 

on  the  Ranee!" 

How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Cap- 
tain's countenance! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 
"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing! 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"Herve  Riel!" 

As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 
Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 
In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 


IX 

Then  said  Damf reville,  "  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips: 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have!  or  my 
name's  not  Damfreville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue: 
"Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point, 

what  is  it  but  a  run? — 
Since  't  is  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore — 
Come!    A  good  whole  holiday! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call 

the  Belle  Aurore!" 

That  he  asked  and  that  he  got, — nothing 
mora 


XI 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it 

befell: 

Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack, 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had 

gone  to  wrack 
All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight 

whence  England  bore  the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris:  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank! 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come 

to  Herve  Riel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once 

more 

Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy 
wife  the  Belle  Aurore! 

(1871) 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  (1822-1888) 

SOHRAB   AND  RUSTUM 
AN  EPISODE 

AND  the  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the 

east, 

And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 
Was  hushed,  and  still  the  men  were 

plunged  in  sleep; 

Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not:  all  night  long 
He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed; 
But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his 

tent, 
He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his 

sword, 
And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left 

his  tent, 

And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog, 
Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa's 

tent 
Through    the   black   Tartar   tents   he 

passed,  which  stood 
Clustering  like  bee-hives  on  the  low  flat 

strand 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


123 


Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer  floods  o'er- 

flow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high 

Pamere: 
Through  the  black  tents  he  passed,  o'er 

that  low  strand, 

And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink,  the  spot  where 

first  a  boat, 
Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes  the 

land. 
The  men  of  former  times  had  crowned  the 

top 
With  a  clay  fort:  but  that  was  falTn;  and 

now 

The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa's  tent, 
A  dome  of  laths,  and  o'er  it  felts  were 

spread. 
And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and 

stood 

Upon  the  thick-piled  carpets  in  the  tent, 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his  bed 
Of  rugs  and  felts,  and  near  him  lay  his 

arms. 
And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him.  though  the 

step 
Was  dulled;   for  he   slept  light,  an  old 

man's  sleep; 

And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said: 
"Who  art  thou?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear 

dawn. 

Speak!  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm?  " 
But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and 

said: 

"Thou  knowest  me,  Peran-Wisa:  it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep;  but  I  sleep  not;  all  night  long  I  lie 
Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son, 
In  Samarcand,  before  the  army  marched; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires. 
Thou  know'st  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan, 

first 

I  came  among  the  Tartars,  and  bore  arms, 
I   have   still  served   Afrasiab   well,   and 

shown, 

At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that,  while  I  still 

bear  on 
The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through 

the  world, 


And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 
I  see  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone — 
Rustum,  my  father;  who,  I  hoped,  should 

greet, 

Should  one  day  greet,  upon  some  well- 
fought  field, 

His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 
So  I  long  hoped,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what 

I  ask. 

Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day:  but  I 
Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian 

lords 

To  meet  me,  man  to  man;  if  I  prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it;  if  I  fall — 
Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no 

kin. 

Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  fight, 
Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names 

are  sunk: 
But   of  a   single   combat   Fame   speaks 

clear." 
He  spoke:  and  Peran-Wisa  took  the 

hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sighed,  and 

said: 

"0  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine! 
Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar 

chiefs, 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance 

with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  forever 

first, 

In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk, 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen? 
That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with  us 
Unmurmuring;  in  our  tents,  while  it  is 

war, 
And  when  't  is  truce,  then  in  Afrasiab's 

towns. 

But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all, 
To    seek    out    Rustum — seek    him    not 

through  fight: 

Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 
O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son ! 
But  far  hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not  here, 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I  was  young, 
When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray: 
But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home, 
In  Seistan,  with  Zal,  his  father  old. 
Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength  at 

last 


124 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Feels  the  abhorred  approaches  of  old  age; 

Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  King. 

There  go! — Thou  wilt  not?    Yet  my 

heart  forebodes 

Danger  of  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain  would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well, 

though  lost 
To  us:  fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in 

peace 

To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights 
In  vain: — but  who  can  keep  the  lion's  cub 
From  ravening?  and  who  govern  Rustum's 

son? 

Go!  I  will  grant  thee  what  thy  heart  de- 
sires." 
So  said  he,  and  dropped  Sohrab's  hand, 

and  left 
His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he 

lay, 

And  o'er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woolen  coat 
He  passed,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and  he 

took 

In  his  right  hand  a  ruler's  staff,  no  sword; 
And  on  his  head  he  set  his  sheep-skin  cap, 
Black,  glossy,  curled,  the  fleece  of  Kara- 

Kul; 
And  raised  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and 

called 

His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 
The  sun,  by  this,  had  risen,  and  cleared 

the  fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering 

sands: 
And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen 

filed 

Into  the  open  plain;  so  Haman  bade; 
Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  ruled 
The  host,  and  still  was  hi  his  lusty  prune. 
From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse, 

they  streamed: 
As  when,  some  gray  November  morn,  the 

files, 
In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-necked 

cranes, 
Stream  over  Casbin,  and  the  southern 

slopes 

Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries, 
Or  some  frore  Caspian  reed-bed,  south- 
ward bound 
For  the  warm  Persian  sea-board:  so  they 

streamed. 


The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,  the  King's  guard, 
First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps  and  with 

long  spears; 

Large  men,  large  steeds;  who  from  Bok- 
hara come 
And  Khiva,   and   ferment    the   milk   of 

mares. 
Next,  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of 

the  south, 

The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 
And  those  from  Attruck  and  the  Caspian 

sands; 
Light  men,  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only 

drink 

The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 
And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse,  who 

came 
From  far,  and  a  more  doubtful  service 

owned; 

The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 
Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards 
And  close-set  skull-caps;  and  those  wilder 

hordes 
Who  roam  o'er  Kipchak  and  the  northern 

waste, 
Kalmuks  and  unkempt  Kuzzaks,  tribes 

who  stray 
Nearest   the  Pole,   and   wandering   Kir- 

ghizzes, 

Who  come  on  shaggy  ponies  from  Pamere. 
These  all  filed  out  from  camp  into  the 

plain. 
And  on   the  other  side   the  Persians 

formed: 
First  a  light  cloud  of  horse,  Tartars  they 

seemed, 

The  Ilyats  of  Khorassan:  and  behind, 
The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and  foot, 
Marshaled  battalions  bright  in  burnished 

steel. 

But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came 
Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the 

front, 
And  with  his  staff  kept  back  the  foremost 

ranks. 
And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians, 

saw 

That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back, 
He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he 

came, 
And  checked  his  ranks,  and  fixed  them 

where  they  stood. 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 
Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and 

said: 
"Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars, 

hear! 

Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to- 
day. 
But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian 

lords 
To  fight  our  champion   Sohrab,  man  to 

man." 

As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June, 
When  the  dew  glistens  on   the  pearled 

ears, 
A  shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for 

joy- 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa 

said, 
A  thrill  through  all  the  Tartar  squadrons 

ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they 

loved. 

But  as  a  troop  of  peddlers,  from  Cabool, 
Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus, 
That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of 

milk  snow; 
Crossing  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they 

pass 
Long  flocks  of  traveling  birds  dead  on  the 

snow, 
Choked  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they 

themselves 
Slake  their  parched  throats  with  sugared 

mulberries — 
In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their 

breath, 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o'er- 

hanging  snows — 
So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with 

fear. 
And  to  Ferood  his  brother  chiefs  came 

up 

To  counsel.     Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And  Feraburz,  who  ruled  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King: 
These    came    and    counseled;    and    then 

Gudurz  said: 

"  Ferood,  shame  bids  us  take  their  chal- 
lenge up, 
Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this 

youth. 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 


But  Rustum  came  last  night;  aloof  he  sits 
And  sullen,  and  has  pitched  his  tents  apart: 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear 
The  Tartar   challenge,   and   this   young 

man's  name. 

Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight, 
Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  chal- 
lenge up." 
So  spake  he;  and  Ferood  stood  forth  and 

cried: 

"Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said. 

Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man." 

He  spake;  and  Peran-Wisa  turned,  and 

strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to  his 

tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz 

ran, 
And  crossed  the  camp  which  lay  behind, 

and  reached, 
Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum's 

tents. 
Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering 

gay, 
Just  pitched:  the  high  pavilion  in  the 

midst 
Was  Rustum's,  and  his  men  lay  camped 

around. 
And  Gudurz  entered  Rustum's  tent,  and 

found 
Rustum:  his  morning  meal  was  done,  but 

still 
The  table  stood  before  him,  charged  with 

food — 

A  side  of  roasted  sheep,  and  cakes  of  bread, 
And  dark  green  melons;  and  there  Rustum 

sate 

Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist, 
And  played  with  it;  but  Gudurz  came  and 

stood 
Before  him;  and  he  looked,  and  saw  him 

stand; 
And  with  a  cry  sprang  up,  and  dropped  the 

bird, 
And  greeted  Gudurz  with  both  hands,  and 

said: 
"Welcome!   these   eyes   could   see   no 

better  sight. 
What  news?  but  sit  down  first,  and  eat  and 

drink." 
But  Gudurz  stood  in  the  tent-door,  and 

said: 


126 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


"Not  now:  a  time  will  come  to  eat  and 

drink, 

But  not  to-day:  to-day  has  other  needs. 
The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at 

gaze: 

For  from  the  Tartars  is  a  challenge  brought 
To  pick  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  their  champion— and  thou  know'st 

his  name — 

Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid. 
O  Rustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young 

man's! 

He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's  chiefs  are  old, 
Or  else  too  weak;  and  all  eyes  turn  to  thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we 

lose." 
He  spoke:  but  Rustum  answered  with  a 

smile: — 

"Go  to!  if  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older:  if  the  young  are  weak,  the  king 
Errs  strangely:   for  the  king,   for  Kai- 

Khosroo, 

Himself  is  young,  and  honors  younger  men, 
And  lets  the  aged  molder  to  their  graves. 
Rustum  he  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the 

young — 
The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab's  vaunts, 

not  I. 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab's 

fame? 

For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son, 
And  not  that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I  have, 
A  son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war, 
And  I  to  tarry  with  the  snow-haired  Zal, 
My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex, 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his 

herds, 

And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old  age. 
There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armor  up, 
And  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak 

old  man, 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have 

got, 
And  rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab's 

fame, 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thankless 

kings, 
And  with  these  slaughterous  hands  draw 

sword  no  more." 
He   spoke,  and   smiled;    and  Gudurz 

made  reply: 


"What  then,  O  Rustum,  will  men  say  to 

this, 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and 

seeks, 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most  he 

seeks, 
Hidest  thy  face?    Take  heed,  lest  men 

should  say, 
'Like  some  old  miser,  Rustum  hoards  his 

fame, 

And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men.'  " 
And,  greatly  moved,  then  Rustum  made 

reply: 
"O  Gudurz,  wherefore  dost  thou  say  such 

words? 
Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to 

say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or 

famed, 

Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me? 
Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself? 
But  who  for  men  of  naught  would  do  great 

deeds? 
Come,  thou  shall  see  how  Rustum  hoards 

his  fame. 
But  I  will  fight  unknown,  and  in  plain 

arms; 
Let  not  men   say  of  Rustum,   he   was 

matched 

In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man." 
He  spoke,  and  frowned;  and  Gudurz 

turned,  and  ran 
Back  quickly  through  the  camp  in  fear  and 

joy. 

Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Rustum 

came. 
But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent-door,  and 

called 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his 

arms, 
And  clad  himself  in  steel:  the  arms  he 

chose 

Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  de- 
vice, 

Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And  from  the  fluted  spine  atopj  a  plume 
Of  horsehair  waved,  a  scarlet  horsehair 

plume. 
So  armed,  he  issued  forth;  and  Ruksh,  his 

horse, 
Followed  him,  like  a  faithful  hound,  at 

heel, 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


127 


Ruksh,  whose  renown  was  noised  through 

all  the  earth, 

The  horse,  whom  Rustum  on  a  foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him 

home, 
And  reared  him;  a  bright  bay,  with  lofty 

crest, 
Dight  with  a  saddle-cloth  of  broidered 

green 
Crusted  with  gold,  and  on  the  ground 

were  worked 
All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters 

know: 
So  followed,  Rustum  left  his  tents,  and 

crossed 

The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  ap- 
peared. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with 

shouts 
Hailed;  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who  he 

was. 

And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on 

shore, 

By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  hi  the  blue  waves,  at  night, 
Having  made  up  his  tale  of  precious  pearls, 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands — 
So  dear  to  the  pale  Persians  Rustum  came. 
And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  ad- 
vanced, 
And  Sohrab  armed  in  Haman's  tent,  and 

came. 

And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swath 
Down  through  the  middle  of  a  rich  man's 

corn, 
And  on  each  side*  are  squares  of  standing 

corn, 

And  in  the  midst  a  stubble,  short  and  bare; 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with 

spears 

Bristling,  and  in  the  midst,  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  toward  the  Tartar  tents,  and  saw 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  eyed  him  as  he 

came. 

As  some  rich  woman,  on  a  winter's  morn, 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the  poor 

drudge 
Who  with  numb  blackened  fingers  makes 

her  fire — 


At  cock-crow  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn, 
When  the  frost  flowers  the  whitened  win- 
dow-panes— 
And  wonders  how  she  lives,  and  what  the 

thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be;  so  Rustum 

eyed 
The  unknown  adventurous  youth,  who 

from  afar 

Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs :  long  he  perused 
His  spirited  air,  and  wondered  who  he  was. 
For  very  young  he  seemed,  tenderly  reared; 
Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and  dark, 

and  straight, 

Which  hi  a  queen's  secluded  garden  throws 
Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf, 
By  midnight,  to  a  bubbling  fountain's 

sound — 

So  slender  Sohrab  seemed,  so  softly  reared. 
And  a  deep  pity  entered  Rustum's  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming;  and  he  stood, 
And  beckoned  to  him  with  his  hand,  and 

said: 
"O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  heaven 

is  soft, 
And  warm,  and  pleasant;  but  the  grave  is 

cold. 
Heaven's  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead 

grave. 

Behold  me:  I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron, 
And  tried;  and  I  have  stood  on  many  a 

field 
Of  blood,  and  I  have  fought  with  many  a 

foe: 
Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe 

saved. 
O  Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on 

death? 
Be  governed:  quit  the  Tartar  host,  and 

come 

To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me, 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die. 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou." 
So  he  spake,  mildly:    Sohrab  heard  his 

voice, 

The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum;  and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand, 
Sole,    like   some   single   tower,  which  a 

chief 

Hath  builded  on  the  waste  in  former  years, 
Against  the  robbers;  and  he  saw  that  head, 


128 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Streaked  with  its  first  gray  hairs:  hope 

filled  his  soul; 
And  he  ran  forward  and  embraced  his 

knees, 
And  clasped  his  hand  within  his  own  and 

said: 
"Oh,  by  thy  father's  head!  by  thine  own 

soul! 
Art  thou  not  Rustum?    Speak!  art  thou 

not  he?" 
But  Rustum  eyed  askance  the  kneeling 

youth, 
And  turned  away,  and  spake  to  his  own 

soul: 
"Ah  me,  I  muse  what  this  young  fox 

may  mean. 

False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks, 
And  hide  it  not,  but  say,  'Rustum  is  here,' 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our 

foes, 

But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  courteous 

gifts, 

A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way. 
And  on  a  feast-day,  in  Afrasiab's  hall, 
In  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry — 
'I  challenged  once,  when  the  two  armies 

camped 

Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight;  but  they 
Shrank;  only  Rustum  dared:  then  he  and  I 
Changed  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  terms 

away.' 

So  will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  men  ap- 
plaud. 
Then  were   the   chiefs   of   Iran   shamed 

through  me." 
And  then  he  turned,  and  sternly  spake 

aloud: 

"Rise!  wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  ques- 
tion thus 
Of  Rustum?    I  am  here,  whom  thou  hast 

called 
By  challenge  forth:  make  good  thy  vaunt, 

or  yield. 
Is  it  with  Rustum    only    thou    wouldst 

fight? 
Rash  boy,  men  look  on  Rustum's  face  and 

flee. 
For  well  I  know,  that  did  great  Rustum 

stand 


Before  thy  face  this  day,  and  were  re- 
vealed, 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting 

more. 

But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this: 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul: 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt, 

and  yield; 
Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand,  till 

winds 
Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer 

floods, 

Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away." 
He  spoke:  and  Sohrab  answered,  on  his 

feet:— 
"Art  thou  so  fierce?    Thou  wilt  not  fright 

me  so. 

I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well,  did  Rustum 

stand 
Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting 

then. 
But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand 

here. 
Begin:  thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread 

than  I, 
And  thou  art  proved,  I  know,  and  I  am 

young — 
But  yet  success  sways  with  the  breath  of 

heaven. 
And  though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  know- 

est  sure 
Thy  victory,   yet   thou  canst  not  surely 

know. 

For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea, 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  Fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain,  to  which  side  to 

fall. 

And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land, 
Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea, 
Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of 

death, 
We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us 

know: 

Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 
He  spoke;  and  Rustum  answered  not, 

but  hurled 
His  spear:  down  from  the  shoulder,  down 

it  came 

As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk 
That  long  has  towered  in  the  airy  clouds 
Drops  like  a  plummet :  Sohrab  saw  it  come, 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


129 


And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash:  the 

spear 
Hissed,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the 

sand, 
Which  it  sent  flying  wide: — then  Sohrab 

threw 
In  turn,  and  full  struck  Rustum's  shield: 

sharp  rang, 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turned  the 

spear. 
And  Rustum  seized  his  club,  which  none 

but  he 
Could  wield:  an  unlopped  trunk  it  was,  and 

huge, 
Still  rough;  like  those  which  men  in  treeless 

plains 
To  build  them  boats  fish  from  the  flooded 

rivers, 

Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter- 
time 

Has  made  in  Himalayan  forest  wrack, 
And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs; 

so  huge 
The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and 

struck 
One   stroke;   but    again    Sohrab    sprang 

aside 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club 

came 

Thundering  to  earth,  and  leapt  from  Rus- 
tum's hand. 
And  Rustum  followed  his  own  blow,  and 

fell 
To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutched 

the  sand: 
And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheathed 

his  sword, 
And  pierced  the  mighty  Rustum  while  he 

lay 
Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  choked  with 

sand: 
But  he  looked  on,  and  smiled,  nor  bared 

his  sword, 
But  courteously  drew  back,  and  spoke,  and 

said: 
"Thou  strik'st  too  hard:  that  club  of 

thine  will  float 
Upon   the   summer-floods,   and   not  my 

bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth;  not  wroth 

am  I: 


No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my 
soul. 

Thou  say'st  thou  art  not  Rustum:  be  it  so. 

Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch  my 
soul? 

Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too; 

Have  waded  f  oremost  in  their  bloody  waves, 

And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying  men; 

But  never  was  my  heart  thus  touched  be- 
fore. 

Are  they  from  heaven,  these  softenings  of 
the  heart? 

O  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  heaven ! 

Come,  plant  we  here  hi  earth  our  angry 
spears, 

And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand, 

And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like 
friends, 

And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's 
deeds. 

There  are  enough  foes  in  the  Persian  host 

Whom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel  no 
pang; 

Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom 
thou 

Mayst  fight;  fight  them,  when  they  con- 
front thy  spear. 

But  oh,  let  there  be  peace  'twixt  thee  and 
me!" 

He  ceased:  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum 
had  risen, 

And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage:  his 
club 

He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regained  his  spear, 

Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mailed  right- 
hand 

Blazed  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  au- 
tumn star, 

The  baleful  sign  of  fevers:  dust  had  soiled 

His  stately  crest,  and  dimmed  his  glittering 
arms. 

His  breast  heaved;  his  lips  foamed;  and 
twice  his  voice 

Was  choked  with  rage:  at  last  these  words 

broke  way: 

"Girl!  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with 
thy  hands! 

Curled  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet 
words! 

Fight;  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no 
more! 

Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now 


130 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art 

wont  to  dance; 

But  on  the  Oxus  sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 
Of  war:  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and 

wine! 

Remember  all  thy  valor;  try  thy  feints 
And  cunning:  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone: 
Because  thou  hast  shamed  me  before  both 

the  hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,  and  thy 

girl's  wiles." 
He   spoke:   and   Sohrab   kindled   at   his 

taunts, 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword:  at  once  they 

rushed 

Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down   together  from   the 

clouds, 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west: 

their  shields 

Dashed  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcut- 
ters 

Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees:  such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took 

part 

In  that  unnatural  conflict;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  heaven,  and  darked  the 

sun 

Over  the  fighters'  heads;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the 

plain, 

And  hi  a  sandy  whirlwind  wrapped  the  pair. 
In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapped,  and 

they  alone; 
For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either 

hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was 

pure, 

And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  blood- 
shot eyes 
And  laboring  breath;  first  Rustum  struck 

the  shield 

Which  Sohrab  held  stiff  out:  the  steel- 
spiked  spear 
Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  failed  to  reach 

the  skin, 


And  Rustum  plucked  it  back  with  angry 

groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rus- 

tum's  helm, 
Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through;  but  all 

the  crest 
He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horsehair 

plume, 

Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust; 
And  Rustum  bowed  his  head;  but  then 

the  gloom 

Grew  blacker:  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air, 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud;  and  Ruksh, 

the  horse, 
Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a  dreadful 

cry: 

No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 
Of  some  pained  desert  lion,  who  all  day 
Hath  trailed  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his 

side, 

And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand: 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked 

for  fear, 

And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quailed  not,  but 

rushed  on, 
And   struck   again;   and   again   Rustum 

bowed 
His  head;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like 

glass, 

Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm, 
And  in  his  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 
Then  Rustum  raised  his  head;  his  dreadful 

eyes 
Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing 

spear, 
And  shouted,  "Rustum!"    Sohrab  heard 

that  shout, 
And  shrank  amazed:  back  he  recoiled  one 

step, 

And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the  ad- 
vancing form: 
And  then  he  stood  bewildered;  and  he 

dropped 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced 

his  side. 
He  reeled,  and  staggering  back,  sank  to 

the  ground. 
And  then  the  gloom  dispersed,  and  the 

wind  fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted 

all 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


The  cloud;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the 

pair; 

Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet, 
And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 
Then    with    a    bitter    smile,    Rustum 

began: 
"Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to 

kill 

A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent. 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would 

come  down 
Himself    to  fight,   and    that    thy  wiles 

would  move 

His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would 

praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy 

fame, 

To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 
Fool!  thou  art  slam,  and  by  an  unknown 

man! 

Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be, 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father 

old." 

And,  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  re- 
plied: 
'  Unknown  thou  art;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is 

vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful 

man! 

No!  Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For  were  I  matched  with  ten  such  men  as 

thee, 

And  I  were  he  who  till  to-day  I  was, 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing 

there 

But  that  beloved  name  unnerved  my  arm — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in 

thee, 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my 

shield 
Fall;  and  thy  spear  transfixed  an  unarmed 

foe, 
And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult'st  my 

fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble  to 

hear! 
The   mighty   Rustum   shall   avenge   my 

death! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the 

world, 


He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish 

thee!" 
As  when  some  hunter  in  the  spring  hath 

found 

A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake, 
And  pierced  her  with  an  arrow  as  she 

rose, 

And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell 
Far  off; — anon  her  mate  comes  winging 

back 

From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  descries 
His  huddling  young  left  sole;  at  that,  he 

checks 

His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest;  but 

she 

Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers:  never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it; 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by: — 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his 

loss — 
So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but 

stood 

Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not. 
But  with  a  cold,  incredulous  voice,  he 

said: 

"  What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son." 

And,  with  a  failing  voice,  Sohrab  replied: 
"Ah,  yes,  he  had!  and  that  lost  son  am  I. 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear, 
Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries 

long, 
Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far 

from  here; 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him 

leap 

To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only 

son! 

What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  ven- 
geance be! 

Oh,  could  I  live,  till  I  that  grief  had  seen ! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 
My  mother,  who  hi  Ader-baijan  dwells 
With  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  grows 

gray 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


With   age,   and   rules  over   the   valiant 

Koords. 

Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp, 
With  spoils  and  honor,  when  the  war  is 

done. 

But  a  dark  rumor  will  be  bruited  up, 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear; 
And  then  will  that  defenceless  woman  learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more; 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe, 
By  the  far  distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain." 
He  spoke;  and  as  he  ceased  he  wept 

aloud, 

Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death. 
He  spoke;  but  Rustum  listened,  plunged  in 

thought. 

Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  called  back  names 

he  knew; 

For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him, 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all: 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 
Rustum  should  seek  the  boy,  to  train  in 

arms; 

And  so  he  deemed  that  either  Sohrab  took, 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum's 

son; 

Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deemed  he;  yet  he  listened,  plunged  in 

thought; 

And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon:  tears  gathered  in  his 

eyes; 

For  he  remembered  his  own  early  youth, 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture;  as,  at  dawn, 
The  shepherd  from   his  mountain-lodge 

descries 

A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many  rolling  clouds; — so  Rustum 

saw 
His  youth;  saw  Sohrab's  mother,  in  her 

bloom; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved 

well 
His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his 

fair  child 

With  joy;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led, 
They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer- 

tim" — 


The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful' 

hills 

In  Ader-baijan.    And  he  saw  that  youth, 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand, 
Like  some  rich  hyacinth,  which  by  the 

scythe 

Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 
Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its 

bed, 

And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 
On  the  mown,  dying  grass; — so  Sohrab 

lay, 

Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 
And  Rustum  gazed  on  him  with  grief,  and 

said: — 

"O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well 

have  loved! 

Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false; — thou  art  not  Rus- 
tum's son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son:  one  child  he 

had — 
But  one — a  girl:  who  with  her  mother 

now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams 

of  us — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor 

war." 
But  Sohrab  answered  him  in  wrath;  for 

now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fixed  spear  grew 

fierce, 

And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 
And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die; 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn 

foe— 

And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said: 
"Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my 

words? 

Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men, 
And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from 

mine. 

I  tell  thee,  pricked  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother 

gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she 

bore." 

He  spoke:  and  all  the  blood  left  Rus- 
tum's cheeks; 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


133 


And  his  knees  tottered,  and  he  smote  his 

hand, 

Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand, 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clanked  aloud: 
And  on  his  heart  he  pressed  the  other  hand, 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake  and  said: 
"  Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could 

not  lie. 
If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum's 

son." 
Then,  with  weak  hasty  ringers,  Sohrab 

loosed 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his 

arm, 

And  showed  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Pricked:  as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain 

vase, 

An  emperor's  gift — at  early  morn  he  paints, 
And  aU  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes, 

the  lamp 
Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin 

hands : — 

So  delicately  pricked  the  sign  appeared 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's 

seal. 
It  was  that  Griffin,  which  of  old  reared 

Zal, 
Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left  to 

die, 

A  helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain  rocks. 
Him  that  kind  creature  found,  and  reared, 

and  loved — 

Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bared  that  image  on  his  arm, 
And  himself  scanned  it  long  with  mournful 

eyes, 
And  then  he  touched  it  with  his  hand  and 

said: 
"How  say'st  thou?    Is  that  sign  the 

proper  sign 

Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's?  " 
He  spoke:  but  Rustum  gazed,  and  gazed, 

and  stood 
Speechless;  and  then  he  uttered  one  sharp 

cry — 
"O    boy — thy    father!" — and    his    voice 

choked  there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  passed  before  his 

eyes, 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to 

earth. 


But  Sohrab  crawled  to  where  he  lay,  and 

cast 

His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  lips, 
And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  stroked  his 

cheeks, 

Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life:  and  life 
Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his 

eyes, 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;  and  he 

seized 
In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay 

around, 
And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirched  his 

hair, 

His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glitter- 
ing arms: 
And  strong  convulsive  groanings  shook  his 

breast, 
And  his  sobs  choked  him;  and  he  clutched 

his  sword, 

To  draw  it,  and  forever  let  life  out. 
But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his 

hands, 
And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spake,  and 

said: 

"Father,  forbear:  for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  that  at  my  birth  was  written 

down 

In  heaven,  and  thou  art  heaven's  uncon- 
scious hand. 

Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 
When  first  I  saw  thee;  and  thy  heart  spoke 

too, 
I  know  it:  but  Fate  trod  those  promptings 

down 

Under  its  iron  heel;  Fate,  Fate  engaged 
The  strife,  and  hurled  me  on  my  father's 

spear. 

But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this:  I  find 
My  father;  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found. 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my 

cheeks, 
And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say: 

'My  son!' 
Quick!  quick!  for  numbered  are  my  sands 

of  life, 
And  swift;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this 

field 

I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away — 
Sudden,   and  swift,   and  like  a  passing 

wind. 


134 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


But  it  was  writ  in  heaven  that  this  should 

be." 
So  said  he:  and  his  voice  released  the 

heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth;  he 

cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept 

aloud, 
And  kissed  him.    And  awe  fell  on  both  the 

hosts 
When    they    saw    Rustum's    grief:    and 

Ruksh,  the  horse, 
With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground,  and 

mane 
Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute 

woe 

First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean;  and  from  his  dark,  compas- 
sionate eyes, 
The  big  warm  tears  rolled  down,  and  caked 

the  sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and 

said: 
"Ruksh,   now   thou   grievest;   but   O 

Ruksh,  thy  feet 
Should  first  have  rotted  on  their  nimble 

joints, 
When  first  they  bore  thy  master  to  this 

field." 
But  Sohrab  looked  upon  the  horse  and 

said: 
"  Is  this  then  Ruksh?    How  often,  in  past 

days, 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave 

steed! 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse;  and 

said, 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and 

thee. 

Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane. 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I; 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go, 
And  snuffed  the  breezes  of  my  father's 

home. 

And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 
And  seen  the  river  of  Helmund,  and  the 

Lake 

Of  Zirrah;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  and  given 

thee  food, 
Corn  in  a  gclden  platter  soaked  with  wine, 


And  said— 'O  Ruksh!  bear  Rustum  well!' 

—but  I 

Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  fur- 
rowed face, 

Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 
Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund 

stream: 
But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and 

seen 

Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand, 
Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste, 
And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents,  and  only 

drunk 

The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 
Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their 

sheep, 
The  northern  Sir;  and  this  great  Oxus 

stream — 

The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 
And,  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  be- 
wailed: 

"Oh,  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me! 
Oh,  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in   the   current  o'er   my 

head!" 

And,  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab  re- 
plied: 
"Desire  not  that,  my  father:  thou  must 

live. 
For  some  are  bora  to  do  great  deeds,  and 

live, 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and 

die. 

Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age. 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come:  thou  seest  this  great  host  of 

men 
Which  follow  me;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not 

these: 
Let  me  entreat  for  them:  what  have  they 

done? 
They  followed  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my 

star. 

Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send 

with  them, 

But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me, 
Thou,  and  the  snow-haired  Zal,  and  all  thy 

friends . 
And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth. 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones, 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all; 
That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 
May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and 

cry: 
'Sohrab,  the  mighty  Rustum's  son,  lies 

there, 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance 

kill'— 

And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave. " 
And,  with  a  mournful  voice,  Rustum 

replied: — 
"Fear  not;  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my 

son, 

So  shall  it  be;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence 

with  me, 

And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan. 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for 

thee, 
With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my 

friends, 

And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a   stately  mound  above  thy 

bones, 

And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all: 
And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 
And  I  will  spare  thy  host:  yea,  let  them  go: 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 
For  would  that  all  whom  I  have  ever 

slain 
Might  be  once  more  alive;  my  bitterest 

foes, 
And  they  who  were  called  champions  in 

their  time, 
And  through  whose  death  I  won  that  fame 

I  have; 

And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 
A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown; 
So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  son,  my 

son! 

Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself, 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of 

thine, 
Not  thou  of  mine;  and  I  might  die,  not 

thou; 

And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Se'istan; 
And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not 

thine; 
And  say — 'O  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 


For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  met'st  thine 

end.' 
But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my 

youth, 

And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age; 
And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood. " 
Then,  at  the  point  of  death,  Sohrab  re- 
plied: 

"A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace;  only  not 

now. 
Not  yet:  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that 

day, 

When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea, 
From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave." 
And  Rustum  gazed  in  Sohrab's  face,  and 

said: 
"  Soon  be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep  that 

sea! 

Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure." 
He  spoke;  and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him, 

and  took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and 

eased 
His  wound's  imperious  anguish;  but  the 

blood 

Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life 
Flowed  with  the  stream;  all  down  his  cold 

white  side 
The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now  and 

soiled, 

Like  the  soiled  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gathered,   on  their  native 

bank, 
By  children  whom  their  nurses  call  with 

haste 
Indoors   from   the   sun's   eye;   his   head 

drooped  low, 
His  limbs  grew  slack:  motionless,  white, 

he  lay, 
White,  with  eyes  closed,  only  when  heavy 

gasps, 
Deep  heavy  gasps,  quivering  through  all 

his  frame, 
Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  opened 

them. 

And  fixed  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face; 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebbed;  and  from 

his  limbs 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 


136 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it 

left, 
And  youth,  and  bloom,  and  this  delightful 

world, 

So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead: 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horseman's 

cloak 
Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead 

son. 

As  those  black  granite  pillars,  once  high- 
reared, 

By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now  'mid  their  broken  flights 

of  steps, 
Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain 

side: 

So,  in  the  sand,  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 
And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn 

waste, 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole 

pair, 
And  darkened  all;  and  a  cold  fog,  with 

night, 

Crept  from  the  Oxus.     Soon  a  hum  arose, 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog;  for  now 
Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took 

their  meal: 

The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward,    the   Tartars,    by    the   river 

marge: 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low 

land, 

Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved, 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hushed  Chorasmian 

waste, 

Under  the  solitary  moon:  he  flowed 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large;  then 

sands  began 
To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his 

streams, 
And  split  his  currents,  that  for  many  a 

league 

The  shorn  and  parceled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy 

isles; 

Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had, 
In  his  high  mountain-cradle  in  Pamere, 
A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer:  till  at  last 


Tne  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and 
wide 

His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 

And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new- 
bathed  stars 

Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 


SIDNEY  LANIER  (1842-1881) 

THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH* 

IT  WAS  three  slim  does  and  a  ten-tined 

buck  in  the  bracken  lay; 
And  ah1  of  a  sudden  the  sinister  smell  of 

a  man, 

Awaft  on  a  wind-shift,  wavered  and  ran 
Down  the  hillside  and  sifted  along  through 
the  bracken  and  passed  that  way. 

Then  Nan  got  a- tremble  at  nostril;  she  was 

the  daintiest  doe; 
In  the  print  of  her  velvet  flank  on  the 

velvet  fern 

She  reared,  and  rounded  her  ears  in  turn. 
Then  the  buck  leapt  up,  and  his  head  as  c. 
king's  to  a  crown  did  go 

Full  high  in  the  breeze,  and  he  stood  as  if 

Death  had  the  form  of  a  deer; 
And    the    two    slim    does    long    lazily 

stretching  arose, 
For  their  day-dream  slowlier  came  to  a 

close, 

Till  they  woke  and  were  still,  breath- 
bound  with  waiting  and  wonder 
and  fear. 

Then  Alan  the  huntsman  sprang  over  the 

hillock,  the  hounds  shot  by, 
The  does  and  the  ten-tined  buck  made  a 

marvellous  bound, 
The  hounds  swept  after  with  never  a 

sound, 

But  Alan  loud  winded  his  horn  in  sign  that 
the  quarry  was  nigh. 

For  at  dawn  of  that  day  proud  Maclean 
of  Lochbuy  to  the  hunt  had  waxed 
wild, 

*Reprinted  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


NARRATIVE  POETRY 


137 


And  he  cursed  at  old  Alan  till  Alan  fared 

off  with  the  hounds 
For  to  drive  him  the  deer  to  the  lower 

glen-grounds: 
"  I  will  kill  a  red  deer,"  quoth  Maclean, "  in 

the  sight  of  the  wife  and  the  child." 

So  gayly  he  paced  with  the  wife  and  the 

child  to  his  chosen  stand; 
But  he  hurried  tall  Hamish  the  hench- 
man ahead:    "Go  turn," — 
Cried  Maclean, — "if  the  deer  seek  to 

cross  to  the  burn, 

Do  thou  turn  them  to  me:  nor  fail,  lest  thy 
back  be  red  as  thy  hand." 

Now  hard-fortuned  Hamish,  half  blown  of 
his  breath  with  the  height  of  the 
hill, 
Was  white  in  the  face  when  the  ten-tined 

buck  and  the  does 
Drew  leaping   to   burn- ward;    huskily 

rose 

His  shouts,  and  his  nether  lip  twitched,  and 
his  legs  were  o'er-weak  for  his  will. 

So  the  deer  darted  lightly  by  Hamish  and 

bounded  away  to  the  burn. 
But  Maclean  never  bating  his  watch  tar- 
ried waiting  below; 
Still  Hamish  hung  heavy  with  fear  for 

to  go 

All  the  space  of  an  hour;  then  he  went,  and 
his  face  was  greenish  and  stern, 

And  his  eye  sat  back  in  the  socket,  and 

shrunken  the  eye-balls  shone, 
As  withdrawn  from  a  vision  of  deeds  it 

were  shame  to  see. 
"Now,  now,  grim  henchman,  what  is  't 

with  thee?" 

Brake  Maclean,  and  his  wrath  rose  red  as 
a  beacon  the  wind  hath  upblown. 

"Three  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  made 

out,"  spoke  Hamish,  full  mild, 
"And  I  ran  for  to  turn,  but  my  breath  it 

was  blown,  and  they  passed; 
I  was  weak,  for  ye  called  ere  I  broke  me 

my  fast." 

Cried  Maclean:    "Now  a  ten-tined  buck 
in  the  si^ht  of  the  wife  and  the  child 


"I  had  killed  if  the  gluttonous  kern  had  not 

wrought  me  a  snail's  own  wrong!" 

Then  he  sounded,  and  down  came  kins*' 

men  and  clansmen  all: 
"Ten  blows,  for  ten  tine,  on  his  back  let 

fall, 

And  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow 
not  at  the  bite  of  thong!" 

So  Hamish  made  bare,  and  took  him  his 

strokes;  at  the  last  he  smiled. 
"Now  I'll  to  the  burn,"  quoth  Maclean, 

"  for  it  still  may  be, 
If  a  slimmer-paunched  henchman  will 

hurry  with  me, 

I  shall  kill  me  the  ten-tined  buck  for  a  gift 
to  the  wife  and  the  child!" 

Then  the  clansmen  departed,  by  this  path 

and  that;  and  over  the  hill 
Sped  Maclean  with  an  outward  wrath 

for  an  inward  shame; 
And  that  place  of  the  lashing  full  quiet 

became; 

And  the  wife  and  the  child  stood  sad;  and 
bloody-backed  Hamish  sat  still. 

But  look!  red  Hamish  has  risen;  quick 

about  and  about  turns  he. 
"There  is  none  betwixt  me  and  the  crag- 
top!"  he  screams  under  breath. 
Then,  livid  as  Lazarus  lately  from  death, 
He  snatches  the  child  from  the  mother,  and 
clambers  the  crag  toward  the  sea. 

Now  the  mother  drops  breath;  she  is  dumb, 

and  her  heart  goes  dead  for  a  space, 

Till  the  motherhood,  mistress  of  death, 

shrieks,  shrieks  through  the  glen, 
And  that  place  of  the  lashing  is  live  with 

men, 

And  Maclean,  and  the  gillie  that  told  him, 
i  dash  up  in  a  desperate  race. 

Not  a  breath's  time  for  asking;  an  eye- 
glance  reveals  all  the  tale  untold. 
They  follow  mad  Hamish  afar  up  the 

crag  toward  the  sea, 
And  the  lady  cries:  "Clansmen,  run  for 

a  fee! — 

Yon  castle  and  lands  to  the  two  first  hands 
that  shall  hook  him  and  hold 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


"Fast  Hamish  back  from  the  brink !"- 

and  ever  she  flies  up  the  steep, 
And  the  clansmen  pant,  and  they  sweat, 

and  they  jostle  and  strain. 
But,  mother,  't  is  vain;  but,  father,  't  is 

vain; 

Stern  Hamish  stands  bold  on  the  brink, 
and  dangles  the  child  o'er  the  deep. 

Now  a  faintness  falls  on  the  men  th'at  run, 

and  they  all  stand  still. 
And  the  wife  prays  Hamish  as  if  he  were 

God,  on  her  knees, 
Crying:  "Hamish!  0  Hamish!  but  please, 

but  please 

For  to  spare  him!"  and  Hamish  still 
dangles  the  child,  with  a  wavering 
will. 

On  a  sudden  he  turns;  with  a  sea-hawk 

scream,  and  a  gibe,  and  a  song, 
Cries:  "So;  I  will  spare  ye  the  child  if,  in 

sight  of  ye  all, 
Ten  blows  on  Maclean's  bare  back  shall 

fall, 

And  ye  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow 
not  at  the  bite  of  the  thong!" 

Then  Maclean  he  set  hardly  his  tooth  to 

his  lip  that  his  tooth  was  red, 
Breathed  short  for  a  space,  said:  "Nay, 

but  it  never  shall  be! 
Let  me  hurl  off  the  damnable  hound  in 

the  sea!" 

But  the  wife:  "Can  Hamish  go  fish  us  the 
child  from  the  sea,  if  dead? 

"Say  yea! — Let  them  lash  me,  Hamish?" 
-"Nay!"— "Husband,  the  lashing 
will  heal; 
But,  oh,  who  will  heal  me  the  bonny 

sweet  bairn  in  his  grave? 
Could  ye  cure  me  my  heart  with  the 

death  of  a  knave? 

Quick!  Love!  I  will  bare  thee — so — 
kneel!"  Then  Maclean  'gan 
slowly  to  kneel 


With  never  a  word,  till  presently  down- 
ward he  jerked  to  the  earth. 
Then   the   henchman — he   that   smote 
Hamish — would  tremble  and  lag; 
"Strike,    hard!"    quoth    Hamish,    full 

stern,  from  the  crag; 

Then  he  struck  him,  and  "One!"  sang 
Hamish,  and  danced  with  the  child 
in  his  mirth. 

And  no  man  spake  beside  Hamish;  he 
counted     each     stroke     with     a 
song. 
When  the  last  stroke  fell,  then  he  moved 

him  a  pace  down  the  height, 
And  he  held  forth  the  child  in  the  heart- 
aching  sight 

Of  the  mother,  and  looked  all  pitiful  grave, 
as  repenting  a  wrong. 

And  there  as  the  motherly  arms  stretched 

out  with  the  thanksgiving  prayer — 

And  there  as  the  mother  crept  up  with  a 

fearful  swift  pace, 
Till  her  finger  nigh  felt  of  the  bairnie's 

face — 

In  a  flash  fierce  Hamish  turned  round  and 
lifted  the  child  in  the  air 

And  sprang  with  the  child  in  his  arms  from 

the  horrible  height  in  the  sea, 
Shrill   screeching,   "Revenge!"   in   the 

wind-rush;  and  pallid  Maclean, 
Age-feeble   with   anger   and   impotent 

pain, 

Crawled  up  on  the  crag,  and  lay  flat,  and 
locked  hold  of  dead  roots  of  a 
tree, 

And  gazed  hungrily  o'er,  and  the  blood 
from  his  back  drip-dripped  in  the 
brine, 
And  a  sea-hawk  flung  down  a  skeleton 

fish  as  he  flew, 
And  the  mother  stared  white  on  the 

waste  of  blue, 

And  the  wind  drove  a  cloud  to  seaward, 
and  the  sun  began  to  shine. 

(1878) 


in 

THE  BALLAD 
THE  POPULAR  BALLAD 

The  ancient  English  and  Scottish  ballads  have  descended  to  us  from  oral  tradition  as  an  outgrowth 
of  what  was  probably  the  composition  of  simple  songs  with  refrain  by  our  ancestors  as  they  sat  around 
a  fire  and  sang  or  chanted  to  each  other.  Slowly  these  little  narrative  poems  grew  more  complex  until 
they  attained  the  form  in  which  they  have  been  preserved.  The  Robin  Hood  cycle  of  ballads  is  grouped 
about  the  fortunes  of  the  popular  outlaw  hero  who  robbed  fat  abbots,  shot  the  king's  deer,  and  assisted 
the  poor  and  needy  with  open  hand.  The  swift  dramatic  power  of  all  the  genuine  popular  ballads  should 
be  noted. 

Some  striking  parallels  to  the  original  three  hundred  and  five  genuine  British  ballads  which  have 
been  recently  discovered  in  the  mountains  of  Virginia  show  how  persistently  the  early  cultural  associa- 
tions of  England  remained  in  their  primitive  purity  in  these  mountainous  regions  of  our  own  South. 

Two  modern  imitations  of  the  popular  ballad  are  here  printed  for  the  sake  of  a  comparison  between 
the  method  of  primitive  art  and  conscious  art  in  handling  similar  themes. 


EDWARD 

"WHY  dois  your  brand  sae  drap  wi  bluid, 

Edward,  Edward, 
Why  dois  your  brand  sae  drap  wi  bluid, 

And  why  sae  sad  gang  yee  0?" 
"O  I  hae  killed  my  hauke  sae  guid, 

Mither,  mither, 

O  I  hae  killed  my  hauke  sae  guid, 
And  I  had  nae  mair  bot  hee  0." 

"Your  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 
Edward,  Edward, 
Your  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 

My  deir  son  I  teU  thee  O." 
"01  hae  killed  my  reid-roan  steid, 

Mither,  mither, 

O  I  hae  killed  my  reid-roan  steid, 
That  erst  was  sae  fair  and  frie  O." 

"  Your  steid  was  auld,  and  ye  hae  got  mair, 

Edward,  Edward, 
Your  steid  was  auld,  and  ye  hae  got  mair, 

Sum  other  dule  ye  drie  0." 
"O  I  hae  killed  my  fadir  deir, 

Mither,  mither, 
0  I  hae  killed  my  fadir  deir, 
Alas,  and  wae  is  mee  O!" 

"And  whatten  penance  wul  ye  drie  for 
that, 

Edward,  Edward, 


And  whatten  penance  will  ye  drie  for  that? 

My  deir  son,  now  tell  me  O." 
"He  set  my  feit  in  yonder  boat, 

Mither,  mither, 
He  set  my  feit  in  yonder  boat, 

And  He  fare  ovir  the  sea  O." 

"And  what  wul  ye  doe  wi  your  towirs 
and  your  ha, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And  what  wul  you  doe  wi  your  towirs  and 

your  ha, 

That  were  sae  fair  to  see  O?" 
"He  let  thame  stand  tul  they  doun  fa, 

Mither,  mither, 

He  let  thame  stand  tul  they  doun  fa, 
For  here  nevir  mair  maun  I  bee  0." 

"And  what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  bairns 
and  your  wife, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And  what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  bairns  and 

your  wife, 

Whan  ye  gang  ovir  the  sea  O?  " 
"The  warldis  room,  late  them  beg  thrae  life, 

Mither,  mither, 

The  warldis  room,  late  them  beg  thrae  life, 
For  thame  nevir  mair  wul  I  see  O." 

"And  what  wul  ye  leive   to    your  ain 
mither  deir, 

Edward,  Edward? 


139 


140 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


And  what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  ain  mither 

deir? 

My  deir  son,  now  tell  me  0." 
"The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  beir, 
Mither,  mither, 

The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  beir, 
Sic  counseils  ye  gave  to  me  0." 

THE  THREE  RAVENS 

THERE  were  three  ravens  sat  on  a  tree, 
Downe  a  downe,  hay  down,  hay  downe, 

There  were  three  ravens  sat  on  a  tree, 
With  a  downe, 

There  were  three  ravens  sat  on  a  tree, 

They  were  as  blacke  as  they  might  be. 
With  a  downe   derrie,   derrie,   derrie, 
downe,  downe. 

The  one  of  them  said  to  his  mate, 
"Where  shall  we  our  breakfast  take?  " 

"Downe  in  yonder  greene  field 

There  lies  a  knight  slain  under  his  shield. 

"His  hounds  they  lie  down  at  his  feete, 
So  well  they  can  their  master  keepe. 

"His  haukes  they  flie  so  eagerly, 
There's  no  fowle  dare  him  come  nie." 

Downe  there  comes  a  fallow  doe, 
As  great  with  young  as  she  might  goe. 

She  lif  t  up  his  bloudy  hed, 

And  kist  his  wounds  that  were  so  red. 

She  got  him  up  upon  her  backe, 
And  carried  him  to  earthen  lake. 

She  buried  him  before  the  prime, 

She  was  dead  herselfe  ere  even-song  time. 

God  send  every  gentleman 
Such  haukes,  such  hounds,  and  such  a 
leman. 

THOMAS  RYMER 

TRUE  Thomas  lay  oer  yond  grassy  bank, 

And  he  beheld  a  ladie  gay, 
A  ladie  that  was  brisk  and  bold, 

Come  riding  oer  the  fernie  brae. 


Her  skirt  was  of  the  grass-green  silk, 

Her  mantle  of  the  velvet  fine, 
At  ilka  tett  of  her  horse's  mane 

Hung  fifty  silver  bells  and  nine. 

True  Thomas  he  took  off  his  hat 
And  bowed  him  low  down  till  his  knee: 

"All  hail,  thou  mighty  Queen  of  Heaven! 
For  your  peer  on  earth  I  never  did  see." 

"O  no,  O  no,  True  Thomas,"  she  says, 
"That  name  does  not  belong  to  me; 

I  am  but  the  queen  of  fair  Elfland, 
And  I'm  come  here  for  to  visit  thee. 

"Harp  and  carp,  Thomas,"  she  said, 

"Harp  and  carp  along  wi  me; 
But  if  ye  dare  to  kiss  my  lips, 

Sure  of  your  bodie  I  will  be." 

"Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 
That  weird  shall  never  daunton  me;" — 

Syne  he  has  kissed  her  rosy  lips 
All  underneath  the  Eildon  Tree. 

"But  ye  maun  go  wi  me  now,  Thomas, 
True  Thomas,  ye  maun  go  wi  me, 

For  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years, 
Thro  weel  or  wae  as  may  chance  to  be." 

She  turned  about  her  milk-white  steed, 
And  took  True  Thomas  up  behind, 

And  aye  when  eer  her  bridle  rang, 
The  steed  flew  swifter  than  the  wind. 

For  forty  days  and  forty  nights 
He  wade  thro  red  blude  to  the  knee, 

And  he  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon, 
But  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 

O  they  rade  on  and  further  on, 
Until  they  came  to  a  garden  green: 

"Light  down,  light  down,  ye  ladie  free, 
Some  of  that  fruit  let  me  pull  to  thee." 

"O  no,  O  no,  True  Thomas,"  she  says, 
"That  fruit  maun  not  betouched-bythee, 

For  a'  the  plagues  that  are  in  hell 
Light  on  the  fruit  of  this  countrie. 

"But  I  have  a  loaf  here  in  my  lap, 
Likewise  a  bottle  of  claret  wine, 


THE  BALLAD 


141 


And  here  ere  we  go  farther  on, 

We'll  rest  a  while,  and  ye  may  dine." 

When  he  had  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill, 
"Lay  down  your  head  upon  my  knee," 

The  lady  sayd,  "ere  we  climb  yon  hill, 
And  I  will  show  you  ferlies  three. 

"O  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road, 
So  thick  beset  wi  thorns  and  briers? 

That  is  the  path  of  righteousness, 
Tho  after  it  but  few  enquires. 

"And  see  not  ye  that  braid  braid  road, 
That  lies  across  yon  lillie  leven? 

That  is  the  path  of  wickedness, 

Tho  some  call  it  the  road  to  heaven. 

"And  see  ye  not  that  bonny  road, 
Which  winds  about  the  femie  brae? 

That  is  the  road  to  fair  Elfland, 

Where  you  and  I  this  night  maun  gae. 

"But  Thomas,  ye  maun  hold  your  tongue, 
Whatever  ye  may  hear  or  see, 

For  ginae  word  you  should  chance  to  speak, 
You  will  neer  get  back  to  your  ain 
countrie." 

He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth, 
And  a  pair  of  shoes  of  velvet  green, 

And  till  seven  years  were  past  and  gone 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 

SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

THE  king  sits  hi  Dumferling  toune, 
Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine: 

"O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 
To  sail  this  schip  of  mine?  " 

Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht, 

Sat  at  the  kings  richt  kne: 
"Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor, 

That  sails  upon  the  se." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  signd  it  wi  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 
A  loud  lauch  lauched  he; 


The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 
The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid, 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir, 

To  sail  upon  the  se! 

"  Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all,, 
Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne:" 

"O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir, 
For  I  feu*  a  deadlie  storme. 

"Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone, 
Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme, 

And  I  feir,  I  feu-,  my  deir  master, 
That  we  will  cum  to  harme." 

0  our  Scots  nobles  wer  richt  laith 
To  weet  then-  cork-heild  schoone; 

Bot  lang  owre  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 
Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone. 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 
Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand, 

Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence 
Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 
Wi  thair  gold  kerns  in  their  hair, 

Waiting  for  thar  ain  deir  lords, 
For  they'll  see  thame  na  mair. 

Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It 's  fif tie  fadom  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit. 

BONNY  BARBARA  ALLAN* 

IT  WAS  in  and  about  the  Martinmas  time, 
When  the  green  leaves  were  a  falling, 

That    Sir    John    Graeme,    in    the    West 

Country, 
Fell  in  love  with  Barbara  Allan. 

He  sent  his  man  down  through  the  town, 
To  the  place  where  she  was  dwelling: 

•This  ballad  is  one  of  about  seventy-six  which  have  been 
found  surviving  in  the  United  States.  _  An  ^interesting  version, 
coming  from  Buchanan  County,  Virginia,  in  which  the  dying 
lover  defends  himself  against  the  reproach  of  having  slighted 
his  sweetheart,  is  quoted  in  an  article,  Ballads  Surviving  in  the 
United  States,  in  the  January,  1916,  Musical  Quarterly,  by  Dr. 
C.  Alphonso  Smith. 


142 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


"O  haste  and  come  to  my  master  dear, 
Gin  ye  be  Barbara  Allan." 

O  hooly,  hooly  rose  she  up, 
To  the  place  where  he  was  lying, 

And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by, 
"Young  man,  I  think  you  're  dying." 

"O  it's  I'm  sick,  and  very,  very  sick, 
And  't  is  a'  for  Barbara  Allan:" 

"0  the  better  for  me  ye  's  never  be, 
Tho  your  heart's  blood  were  a  spilling. 

"0  dinna  ye  mind,  young  man,"  said  she, 
"When  ye  was  in  the  tavern  a  drinking, 

That  ye  made  the  healths  gae  round  and 

round, 
And  slighted  Barbara  Allan?" 

He  turnd  his  face  unto  the  wall, 
And  death  was  with  him  dealing: 

"Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  all, 
And  be  kind  to  Barbara  Allan." 

And  slowly,  slowly  raise  she  up, 

And  slowly,  slowly  left  him, 
And  sighing  said,  she  could  not  stay, 

Since  death  of  life  had  reft  him. 

She  had  not  gane  a  mile  but  twa, 
When  she  heard  the  dead-bell  ringing, 

And  every  jow  that  the  dead-bell  geid, 
It  cryd,  Woe  to  Barbara  Allan! 

"O  mother,  mother,  make  my  bed! 

0  make  it  saft  and  narrow! 
Since  my  love  died  for  me  to-day, 

I'll  die  for  him  to-morrow." 

JOHNIE  ARMSTRONG 

THERE  dwelt  a  man  in  faire  Westmerland, 
Jonne  Armestrong  men  did  him  call, 

He  had  nither  lands  nor  rents  coming  in, 
Yet  he  kept  eight  score  men  in  his  hall. 

He  had  horse  and  harness  for  them  all, 
Goodly  steeds  were  all  milke-white; 

O  the  golden  bands  an  about  their  necks, 
And  their  weapons,  they  were  all  alike. 

Newes  then  was  brought  unto  the  king 
That  there  was  sicke  a  won  as  hee, 


That  lived  lyke  a  bold  out-law, 
And  robbed  all  the  north  country. 

The  king  he  writt  an  a  letter  then, 
A  letter  which  was  large  and  long; 

He  signed  it  with  his  owne  hand, 
And  he  promised  to  doe  him  no  wrong. 

When  this  letter  came  Jonne  untill, 
His  heart  was  as  blyth  as  birds  on  tht 

tree: 

"Never  was  I  sent  for  before  any  king, 
My  father,  my  grandfather,  nor  now 
but  mee. 

"And  if  wee  goe  the  king  before, 
I  would  we  went  most  orderly; 

Every  man  of  you  shall  have  his  scarlet 

cloak, 
Laced  with  silver  laces  three. 

"Every  won  of  you  shall  have  his  velvett 
coat, 

Laced  with  silver  lace  so  white; 
O  the  golden  bands  an  about  your  necks, 

Black  hatts,  white  feathers,  all  alyke." 

By  the  morrow  morninge  at  ten  of  the  clock, 
Towards  Edenburough  gon  was  hee, 

And  with  him  all  his  eight  score  men; 
Good  lord,  it  was  a  goodly  sight  for  to 
see! 

When  Jonne  came  befower  the  king, 

He  fell  downe  on  his  knee; 
"O  pardon,  my  soveraine  leige,"  he  said, 

"O  pardon  my  eight  score  men  and 
mee." 

"Thou  shalt  have  no  pardon,  thou  traytor 

strong, 

For  thy  eight  score  men  nor  thee; 
For  to-morrow  morning  by  ten  of  the  clock, 
Both  thou  and  them  shall  hang  on  the 
gallow-tree." 

But  Jonne  looked  over  his  left  shoulder, 
Good  Lord,  what  a  grevious  look  looked 
hee! 

Saying,  "Asking  grace  of  a  graceles  face- 
Why  there  is  none  for  you  nor  me." 


THE  BALLAD 


143 


But  Jonne  had  a  bright  sword  by  his  side, 
And  it  was  made  of  the  mettle  so  free, 

That  had  not  the  king  stept  his  foot  aside, 
He  had  smitten  his  head  from  his  faire 
bodde. 

Saying,  "Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all, 
And  see  that  none  of  you  be  taine; 

For  rather  than  men  shall  say  we  were 

hangd, 
Let  them  report  how  we  were  slaine." 

Then,  God  wott,  faire  Eddenburrough  rose, 
And  so  besett  poore  Jonne  rounde, 

That  fower  score  and  tenn  of  Jonnes  best 

men 
Lay  gasping  all  upon  the  ground. 

Then  like  a  mad  man  Jonne  laide  about, 
And  like  a  mad  man  then  fought  hee, 

Untill  a  fake  Scot  came  Jonne  behinde, 
And  runn  him  through  the  faire  boddee. 

Saying,  "Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all, 
I  am  a  little  hurt,  but  I  am  not  slain; 

I  will  lay  me  down  for  to  bleed  a  while, 
Then  I  'le  rise  and  fight  with  you  again." 

Newes  then  was  brought  to  young  Jonne 

Armestrong, 

As  he  stood  by  his  nurses  knee, 
Who  vowed  if  ere  he  lived  for  to  be  a  man, 
O  the  treacherous  Scots  revengd  hee  'd 
be. 

THE  DAEMON  LOVER 

"O  WHERE  have  you  been,  my  long,  long 
love, 

This  long  seven  years  and  mair?" 
"O  I'm  come  to  seek  my  former  vows 

Ye  granted  me  before." 

"O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  former  vows, 
For  they  will  breed  sad  strife;  . 

0  hold  your  tongue  of  your  former  vows, 
For  I  am  become  a  wife." 

He  turned  him  right  and  round  about, 

And  the  tear  blinded  his  ee: 
"I  wad  never  hae  trodden  on  Irish  ground, 

If  it  had  not  been  for  thee. 


"I  might  hae  had  a  king's  daughter, 

Far,  far  beyond  the  sea; 
I  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter, 

Had  it  not  been  for  love  o  thee." 

"If  ye  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter, 

Yersel  ye  had  to  blame; 
Ye   might   have   had   taken   the   king's 
daughter, 

For  ye  kend  that  I  was  nane. 

"If  I  was  to  leave  my  husband  dear, 
And  my  two  babes  also, 

0  what  have  you  to  take  me  to, 
If  with  you  I  should  go?  " 

"  I  hae  seven  ships  upon  the  sea — 
The  eighth  brought  me  to  land — 

With  four-and-twenty  bold  mariners, 
And  music  on  every  hand." 

She  has  taken  up  her  two  little  babes, 
Kissd  them  baith  cheek  and  chin: 

"0  fair  ye  weel,  my  ain  two  babes, 
For  I'll  never  see  you  again." 

She  set  her  foot  upon  the  ship, 
No  mariners  could  she  behold; 

But  the  sails  were  o  the  taffetie, 
And  the  masts  o  the  beaten  gold. 

She  had  not  sailed  a  league,  a  league. 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
When  dismal  grew  his  countenance, 

And  drumlie  grew  his  ee. 

They  had  not  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
Until  she  espied  his  cloven  foot, 

And  she  wept  right  bitterlie. 

"O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  weeping," 

says  he, 
"Of  your  weeping  now  let  me  be; 

1  will  shew  you  how  the  lilies  grow 

On  the  banks  of  Italy." 

"O  what  hills  are  yon,  yon  pleasant  hills, 
That  the  sun  shines  sweetly  on?" 

"O  yon  are  the  hills  of  heaven,"  he  said, 
"Where  you  will  never  win." 


144 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


"O  whaten  a  mountain  is  yon,"  she  said, 
"All  so  dreary  wi  frost  and  snow?" 

"O  yon  is  the  mountain  of  hell,"  he  cried, 
"Where  you  and  I  will  go." 

He  strack  the  tap-mast  wi  his  hand, 

The  fore-mast  wi  his  knee, 
And  he  brake  that  gallant  ship  in  twain, 

And  sank  her  in  the  sea. 

ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GISBORNE 

WHEN  shawes  beene  sheene,  and  shradds 
full  fayre, 

And  leeves  both  large  and  longe, 
It  is  merry,  walking  in  the  fayre  fforrest, 

To  heare  the  small  birds  songe. 

The  woodweele  sang,  and  wold  not  cease, 

Amongst  the  leaves  a  lyne; 
And  it  is  by  two  wight  yeomen, 

By  deare  God,  that  I  meane. 

"Me  thought  they  did  mee  beate  and 
binde, 

And  tooke  my  bo  we  mee  froe; 
If  I  bee  Robin  alive  in  this  lande, 

I  'le  be  wrocken  on  both  them  towe." 

"Sweavens    are    swift,    master,"    quoth 
John, 

"As  the  wind  that  blowes  ore  a  hill; 
Ffor  if  itt  be  never  soe  lowde  this  night, 

To-morrow  it  may  be  still." 

"Buske  yee,  bowne  yee,  my  merry  men 
all, 

Ffor  John  shall  goe  with  mee; 
For  I  'le  goe  seeke  yond  wight  yeomen 

In  greenwood  where  they  bee." 

They  cast  on  their  gowne  of  greene, 

A  shooting  gone  are  they, 
Until  they  came  to  the  merry  greenwood, 

Where  they  had  gladdest  bee; 
There  were  they  ware  of  a  wight  yeoman, 

His  body  leaned  to  a  tree. 

A  sword  and  a  dagger  he  wore  by  his  side, 
Had  beene  many  a  mans  bane, 

And  he  was  cladd  in  his  capull-hyde, 
Topp,  and  tayle,  and  mayne. 


"Stand  you  still,   master,"   quoth  Litle 
John, 

"Under  this  trusty  tree, 
And  I  will  goe  to  yond  wight  yeoman, 

To  know  his  meaning  trulye." 

"A,  John,  by  me  thou  setts  noe  store, 

And  that's  a  ffarley  thinge; 
How  off t  send  I  my  men  beffore, 

And  tarry  my-selfe  behinde? 

"It  is  noe  cunning  a  knave  to  ken; 

And  a  man  but  heare  him  speake 
And  itt  were  not  for  bursting  of  my  bowe, 

John,  I  wold  thy  head  breake." 

But  often  words  they  breeden  bale; 

That  parted  Robin  and  John. 
John  is  gone  to  Barnesdale, 

The  gates  he  knowes  eche  one. 

And  when  hee  came  to  Barnesdale, 
Great  heavinesse  there  hee  hadd; 

He  ffound  two  of  his  fellowes 
Were  slaine  both  in  a  slade, 

And  Scarlett  a-ffoote  flyinge  was, 

Over  stockes  and  stone, 
For  the  sheriffe  with  seven  score  men 

Fast  after  him  is  gone. 

"  Yett  one  shoote  I  'le  shoote,"  sayes  Litle 
John, 

"With  Crist  his  might  and  mayne; 
I  'le  make  yond  fellow  that  flyes  soe  fast 

To  be  both  glad  and  ffaine." 

John  bent  up  a  good  veiwe  bow, 

And  ffetteled  him  to  shoote; 
The  bow  was  made  of  a  tender  boughe, 

And  fell  downe  to  his  foote. 

"Woe  worth  thee,  wicked  wood,"  sayd 
Litle  John, 

"That  ere  thou  grew  on  a  tree! 
Ffor  this  day  thou  art  my  bale, 

My  boote  when  thou  shold  bee!" 

This  shoote  it  was  but  looselye  shott, 

The  arrowe  flew  in  vaine, 
And  it  mett  one  of  the  sheriff es  men; 

Good  William  a  Trent  was  slaine. 


THE  BALLAD 


It  had  beene  better  for  William  a  Trent 

To  hange  upon  a  gallowe 
Then  for  to  lye  in  the  greenwoode, 

There  slaine  with  an  arrowe. 

And  it  is  sayd,  when  men  be  mett, 

Six  can  doe  more  than  three: 
And  they  have  tane  Litle  John, 

And  bound  him  ffast  to  a  tree. 

"Thou   shalt    be    drawen    by  dale  and 
downe,"  quoth  the  sheriffe, 

"And  hanged  hye  on  a  hill:" 
"  But  thou  may  ffayle,"  quoth  Litle  John, 

"If  itt  be  Christs  owne  will." 

Let  us  leave  talking  of  Litle  John, 
For  hee  is  bound  fast  to  a  tree, 

And  talke  of  Guy  and  Robin  Hood 
In  the  green  woode  where  they  bee. 

How  these  two  yeomen  together  they  mett, 

Under  the  leaves  of  lyne, 
To  see  what  marchandise  they  made 

Even  at  that  same  time. 

"Good  morrow,  good  fellow,"  quoth  Sir 

Guy; 
"Good  morrow,   good  ffellow,"  quoth 

hee; 
"Methinkes  by  this  bow  thou  beares  in 

thy  hand, 
A  good  archer  thou  seems  to  bee." 

"I  am  wilfull  of  my  way,"  quoth  Sir 

Guye, 

"And  of  my  morning  tyde:" 
"Tie  lead  the'e  through  the  wood,"  quoth 

Robin, 
"Good  ffellow,  I  'le  be  thy  guide." 

"I  seeke  an  outlaw,"  quoth  Sir  Guye, 

"Men  call  him  Robin  Hood; 
I  had  rather  meet  with  him  upon  a  day 

Than  forty  pound  of  golde." 

"If  you   tow  mett,   itt  wold  be   scene 
whether  were  better 

Afore  yee  did  part  awaye; 
Let  us  some  other  pastime  find, 

Good  ffellow,  I  thee  prav. 


"Let  us  some  other  masteryes  make, 
And  wee  will  walke  in  the  woods  even; 

Wee  may  chance  meet  with  Robin  Hoode 
Att  some  unsett  steven." 

They    cutt    them    downe    the    summer 
shroggs 

Which  grew  both  under  a  bryar, 
And  sett  them  three  score  rood  in  twinn, 

To  shoote  the  prickes  full  neare. 

"Leade  on,  good  ffellow,"  sayd  Sir  Guye, 

"Lead  on,  I  doe  bidd  thee:" 
"Nay,  by  my  faith,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"The  leader  thou  shalt  bee." 

The  first  good  shoot  that  Robin  ledd, 
Did  not  shoote  an  inch  the  pricke  ffroe; 

Guy  was  an  archer  good  enoughe, 
But  he  cold  neere  shoote  soe. 

The  second  shoote,  Sir  Guy  shott, 
He  shott  within  the  garlande; 

But  Robin  Hoode  shott  it  better  than 

hee, 
For  he  clove  the  good  pricke-wande. 

"  Gods  blessing  on  thy  heart! "  sayes  Guye, 
"Goode  ffellow,  thy  shooting  is  goode; 

For  an  thy  hart  be  as  good  as  thy  hands, 
Thou  were  better  then  Robin  Hood. 

"Tell  me  thy  name,  good  ffellow,"  quoth 
Guy, 

"Under  the  leaves  of  lyne:" 
"Nay,  by  my  faith,"  quoth  good  Robin, 

"Till  thou  have  told  me  thine." 

"I  dwell  by  dale  and  downe,"  quoth 
Guye, 

"And  I  have  done  many  a  curst  turne; 
And  he  that  calles  me  by  my  right  name, 

Calles  me  Guye  of  good  Gysborne." 

"My  dwelling  is  in  the  wood,"  sayes 
Robin ; 

"By  thee  I  set  right  nought; 
My  name  is  Robin  Hood  of  Barnesdale, 

A  ffellow  thou  has  long  sought." 

He  that  had  neither  beene  a  kithe  nor  kin 
Might  have  scene  a  full  fayre  sight, 


I46 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went, 
With  blades  both  browne  and  bright; 

To  have  seene  how  these  yeomen  together 
fought 

Two  howers  of  a  summers  day; 
Itt  was  neither  Guy  nor  Robin  Hood 

That  ffettled  them  to  flye  away. 

Robin  was  reacheles  on  a  roote, 

And  stumbled  at  that  tyde, 
And  Guy  was  quicke  and  nimble  withall, 

And  hitt  him  ore  the  left  side. 

"Ah,  deere  Lady!"  sayd  Robin  Hoode, 
"Thou  art  both  mother  and  may! 

I  thinke  it  was  never  mans  destinye 
To  dye  before  his  day." 

Robin  thought  on  Our  Lady  deere, 

And  soone  leapt  up  againe, 
And   thus  he  came  with  an  awkwarde 
stroke; 

Good  Sir  Guy  hee  has  slayne. 

He  tooke  Sir  Guys  head  by  the  hayre, 
And  sticked  itt  on  his  bowes  end: 

"Thou  hast  beene  traytor  all  thy  liffe, 
Which  thing  must  have  an  ende." 

Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irish  kniffe, 
And  nicked  Sir  Guy  in  the  fface, 

That  hee  was  never  on  a  woman  borne 
Cold  tell  who  Sir  Guye  was. 

Saies,  "Lye    there,  lye  there,  good    Sir 

Guye, 

And  with  me  be  not  wrothe; 
If  thou  have  had  the  worse  stroakes  at 

my  hand, 
Thou  shalt  have  the  better  cloathe." 

Robin  did  off  his  gowne  of  greene, 

Sir  Guye  hee  did  it  throwe; 
And  hee  put  on  that  capull-hyde 

That  cladd  him  topp  to  toe. 

"The  bowe,  the  arrows,  and  litle  home, 

And  with  me  now  I  'le  beare; 
Ffor  now  I  will  goe  to  Barnesdale 

To  see  how  my  men  doe  ffare." 


Robin  sett  Guyes  home  to  his  mouth, 
A  lowd  blast  in  it  he  did  blow; 

That  beheard  the  sheriffe  of  Nottingham, 
As  he  leaned  under  a  lowe. 

"Hearken!  hearken!"  sayd  the  sheriffe, 
"I  heard  noe  ty dings  but  good; 

For    yonder    I   heare    Sir   Guyes   home 

blowe, 
For  he  hath  slaine  Robin  Hoode. 

"For  yonder  I  heare  Sir  Guyes  home 
blow, 

Itt  blowes  soe  well  in  tyde, 
For  yonder  comes  that  wighty  yeoman, 

Cladd  in  his  capull-hyde. 

"  Come  hither,  thou  good  Sir  Guy, 

Aske  of  mee.what  thou  wilt  have:" 
"I'le  none  of   thy   gold,"  sayes  Robin 

Hood, 
"Nor  I  'le  none  of  itt  have. 

"But  now  I  have  slaine  the  master,"  he 
sayd, 

"Let  me  goe  strike  the  knave; 
This  is  all  the  reward  I  aske, 

Nor  noe  other  will  I  have." 

"Thou  art  a  madman,"  said  the  shiriffe, 
"Thou   sholdest   have   had   a  knights 
ffee; 

Seeing  thy  asking  hath  beene  soe  badd, 
Well  granted  it  shall  be." 

But  Litle  John  heard  his  master  speake, 
Well  he  knew  that  was  his  Steven ; 

"Now    shall    I    be   loset,"    quoth   Litle 

John, 
"With  Christs  might  in  heaven." 

But  Robin  hee  hyed  him  towards  Litle 
John, 

Hee  thought  hee  wold  loose  him  belive; 
The  sheriffe  and  all  his  companye 

Fast  after  him  did  drive. 

"Stand  abacke!  stand  abacke!"  sayd 
Robin; 

"Why  draw  you  mee  soe  neere? 
Itt  was  never  the  use  in  our  countrye 

Ones  shrift  another  shold  heere." 


THE  BALLAD 


147 


But  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irysh  kniffe, 
And  losed  John  hand  and  ffoote, 

And  gave  him  Sir  Guyes  bow  in  his  hand, 
And  bade  it  be  his  boote. 

Hut  John  tooke  Guyes  bow  in  his  hand — 
His  arrowes  were  rawstye  by  the  roote; 

The  sherriffe  saw  Litle  John  draw  a  bow 
And  iTettlc  him  to  shoote. 


Towards  his  house  in  Nottingam 

He  ffled  full  fast  away, 
And  soe  did  all  his  companyc, 

Not  one  behind  did  stay. 

But  he  cold  neither  soe  fast  goe, 

Nor  away  soe  fast  runn, 
But  Litle  John,  with  an  arrow  broade, 

Did  cleve  his  heart  in  twinn. 


MODERN  IMITATIONS  OF  THE  BALLAD 


JOHN  KEATS  (1795-1821) 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

O  WHAT  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms! 

Alone  and  palely  loitering! 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms! 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
K;is(  willicreth  too. 

i  met  a  (ady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

Lmade  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long. 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said- 
"  1  love  thee  true." 


She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dreamed — Ah!  woe  betide! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 
Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 

They  cried — "La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall!" 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here, 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake 

And  no  birds  sing.  (1820) 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

(1828-1882) 

SISTER  HELEN 

"WHY  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 

Sister  Helen? 

To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began." 
"The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three    days    to-day,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven  /) 


148 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


"But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright, 

Sister  Helen, 

You  '11  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might." 
"Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night, 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Third   night,   to-night,   between   Hell   and 
Heaven  /) 

"You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell, 

Sister  Helen; 

If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well." 
"Even  so, — nay,  peace!  you  cannot  tell, 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
0  what  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

"Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 

Sister  Helen; 

How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away ! " 
"Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you 
say, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?} 

"See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 
Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as 

blood!" 

"Nay   now,   when   looked   you   yet   on 
blood, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
How  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaven !} 

"Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they're  sick 
and  sore, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  I  '11  play  without  the  gallery  door." 
"Aye,  let  me  rest, — I'll  lie  on  the  floor, 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What    rest    to-night,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven  ?) 

"Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me." 
"Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see, 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 


What    sight    to-night,    between    Hell    ana 
Heaven  ?} 

"  Outside  it 's  merry  in  the  wind's  wake, 

Sister  Helen; 
In    the    shaken    trees    the    chill    stars 

shake." 

"Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you 
spake, 

Litt'e  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What   sound   to-night,   between   Hell   and 
Heaven  ?} 

"I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 

Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly." 
"Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three, 

Little  brother?  " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother. 
Whence   should   they   come,   between   Hell 
and  Heaven  ?} 

"They  come  by  the  hill- verge  from  Boyne 
Bar, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar." 
"Look,  look,  do    you   know   them   who 
they  are, 

Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Who   should   they   be,   between   Hell   and 
Heaven  ?} 

"Oh,  it's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast." 
"The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo! 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  says  that  he  wouM  speak  with 

you." 

"Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why  laughs  she  thus,   between  Hell   and 
Heaven  /) 


THE  BALLAD 


149 


"The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  Keith  of  Ewern's  like  to  die." 
"And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
And  they  and  we,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

"Three  days  ago,  on  his  marriage-morn, 

Sister  Helen, 

He  sickened,  and  lies  since  then  forlorn." 
"For   bridegroom's   side  is   the  bride  a 
thorn, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Cold    brtdal     cheer,     between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"Three  days  and  nights  he  has  lam  abed, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead." 
"The    thing    may    chance,    if   he    have 
prayed, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
If  he  have  prayed, between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  you  should  take  your  curse  away." 
"My  prayer  was  heard, — he  need  but 
pray, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Shall   God   not    hear    between   Hell   and 
Heaven  ?) 

"But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your 
ban, 

Sister  Helen 

His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can." 
"Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
A  living  sold,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame." 
"  My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same, 

Little  brother." 
0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 


Fire    at    the    heart,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven  !) 

"Here's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast, 

Sister  Helen 

For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast." 
"The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

"He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse, 

Sister  Helen; 
But  his  words  are  drowned  in  the  wind's 

course." 

"Nay  hear,  nay  hear,   you  must   hear 
perforce, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  word  now  heard,  between  Hett  and 
Heaven  ?) 

"Oh  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern's  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 

Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die." 
"  In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The   scnd's   one  sight,   between  Hell   and 
Heaven!) 

"He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne." 
"What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
No,     never    joined,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven  /) 

"He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 

Sister  Helen, 

You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain." 
"  What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again, 

Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Not  twice  to  give,  between  Hell  and  Heaven !) 

"  He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony, 
Sister  Helen, 
That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see." 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


"Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he, 
Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love   turned   to   hate,    between   Hell   and 
Heaven  /) 

"Oh  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides 
fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast." 
"The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Will    soon    be    past,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven  /) 

"He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak, 

Sister  Helen, 

But  oh!  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak! " 
"What  here   should   the  mighty  Baron 
seek, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?} 

"Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live." 
"Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive, 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
As  she  forgives,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would  rive, 

Sister  Helen, 

To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive." 
"Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive, 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Alas,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road, 

Sister  Helen, 

To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God ! " 
"The  way  is  long  to  his  son's  abode, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  way  is  long,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"A  lady's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought, 

Sister  Helen, 
So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not." 


"See  her  now  or  never  see  aught, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  more  to  see,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?} 

"Her   hood   falls   back,   and   the   moon 
shines  fair, 

Sister  Helen, 

On  the  Lady  of  Ewern's  golden  hair." 
"Blest  hour  of  my  power  and  her  despair, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Hour  blest  and  bann'd,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  /) 

"Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,  that  in  pride  did 
glow, 

Sister  Helen, 

'Neath  the  bridal-wreath  three  days  ago." 
"One  morn  for  pride  and  three  days  for 
woe, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother    Mary  Mother, 
Three  days,  three  nights,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  /) 

"Her  clasped  hands  stretch  from  her  bend- 
ing head, 

Sister  Helen; 
With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are 

wed." 

"What  wedding-strains  hath  her  bridal- 
bed, 

Little  brother? ' 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  strain  but  death's,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  ?} 


"She  may  not  speak,  she  sinks  in  a  swoon, 

Sister  Helen, 

She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon." 
"Oh!  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe 
tune, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  woe's  dumb   cry,   between   Hell   and 
Heaven  /) 


; 


"They've   caught    her    to    Westholm's 
saddle-bow, 

Sister  Helen, 


THE  BALLAD 


And  her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in 

its  flow." 
"Let  it  turn  whiter  than  winter  snow, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Woe-withered    gold,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven  /) 

"O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell, 

Sister  Helen! 

More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell." 
"No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
His     dying     knell,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven  /) 

"Alas!  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 
Sister  Helen; 

Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground?  " 
"Say,   have    they    turned    their    horses 
round, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  would  she  more,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven  ?} 

"They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his 
knee. 

Sister  Helen, 

And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily." 
"More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee, 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 


The 


naked     soul, 
Heaven  /) 


between     Hell     and 


"Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone, 

Sister  Helen, 

But  the  lady's  dark  steed  goes  alone." 
"And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath 
flown, 

Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  lonely  ghost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill." 
"But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Most     sad     of    all,     between     Hell  and 
Heaven  /) 

"See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its 
place, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  the  flames  are  whining  up  apace!" 
"Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"Ah!  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has 
cross'd, 

Sister  Helen? 

Ah!  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost?" 
"  A  soul  that's  lost  as  mine  is  lost, 

Little  Brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Lost,    lost,    all    lost,    between    Hell    and 


Heaven  /) 


(1870) 


IV 
LYRIC  POETRY 


JOLLY  GOOD  ALE  AND  OLD 

BACK  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare; 

Both  foot  and  hand,  go  cold: 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old! 

I  can  not  eat  but  little  meat, 

My  stomach  is  not  good; 
But,  sure,  I  think  that  I  can  drink 

With  him  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  am  nothing  a-cold, 
I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side,  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

(Chorus) 

I  love  no  roast,  but  a  nut-brown  toast 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead, 

Much  bread  I  not  desire. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old.     (Chorus) 

And  Tyb,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 
Full  oft  drinks  she  till  ye  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek; 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl, 

Even  as  a  malt-worm  should, 
And  saith,  "Sweet  heart,  I  took  my  part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old."  (Chorus) 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and  wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do; 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to. 
And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured  bowls 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolled, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  young  or  old !   (Chorus) 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1554-1586) 

SONNET  xxxi 

WITH  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st 

the  skies! 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 
What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly 

place 

That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries! 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted 

eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's 

case, 

I  read  it  in  thy  looks;  thy  languished  grace, 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of 

wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they 

be? 

Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth 

possess? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness? 


GEORGE  PEELE  (i558?-i$97?) 

SONG  FROM  THE  ARRAIGNMENT  OF  PARIS 

(ENONE.  Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fak  as  any  may  be; 
The  fairest  shepherd  on  our  green, 
A  love  for  any  lady. 

PARIS.     Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 
And  for  no  other  lady. 

(EN.        My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay, 
As  fresh  as  bin  the  flowers  in 
May, 


LYRIC  POETRY 


And  of  my  love  my  roundelay, 

My  merry,  merry  roundelay, 
Concludes  with  Cupid's  curse, — 
"  They  that  do  change  old  love  for 

new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse!" 

AMBO  SIMUL.    They  that  do  change,  etc. 

iEN.        Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

PAR.        Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

Thy  love  is  fair,  etc. 

QEN.        My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing, 
My  love  can  many  a  pretty  thing, 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry,  merry  roundelays, 

Amen  to  Cupid's  curse, — 
"They  that  do  change,"  etc. 

PAR.        They  that  do  change,  etc. 

AMBO.     Fair  and  fair,  etc. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON  (1563-1631) 

BALLAD  OF  AGINCOURT 

FAIR  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance; 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marcheth  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour; 
Skirmishing,  day  by  day, 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide, 

To  the  King  sending; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 


And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then: 
"Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

Be  not  amazed! 
Yet  have  we  well  begun: 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  Fame  been  raised! 

"And  for  myself,"  quoth  he, 
"This  my  full  rest  shall  be: 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me! 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain; 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me! 

"Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell. 
Under  our  swords  they  felL 

No  less  our  skill  is, 
Than  when  our  Grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vanward  led; 
With  the  main,  Henry  sped 

Amongst  his  henchmen; 
Exeter  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there! 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone; 
Armor  on  armor  shone; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan: 

To  hear,  was  wonder; 
That,  with  the  cries  they  make* 
The  very  earth  did  shake; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake; 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces! 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses. 


154 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


With  Spanish  yew  so  strong; 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather. 
None  from  his  fellow  starts; 
But,  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilboes  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew: 

Not  one  was  tardy. 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went: 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  King, 
His  broad  sword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o'erwhehn  it. 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent; 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloucester,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother. 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  Lnight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another! 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade; 
Oxford,  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily; 

Ferrers,  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray; 
Which  Fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry. 
O,  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry? 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

(1564-1616) 

SONGS  FROM  THE  PLAYS 

FROM  "LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST" 

WHEN  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipped  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
"Tu-whit,  tu-who!"  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw. 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
"Tu-whit,  tu-who!"  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

FROM  "As  You  LIKE  IT" 


UNDER  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither!  come  hither!  come  hither  I 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither!  come  hither!  come  hither; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind! 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


Heigh  ho!  sing,  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green 

hoUy: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving 

mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh  ho,  the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky! 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot; 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 

Heigh  ho!  sing,  heigh  ho!  etc. 

FROM  "TWELFTH  NIGHT" 

0  MISTRESS  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O,  stay  and  hear;  your  true  love 's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?  't  is  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth 's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

FROM  "MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE" 

TAKE,  0,  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn: 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again; 
Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain, 

Sealed  hi  vain! 

SONNETS 

XXIX 

WHEN  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 
eyes, 

1  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless 
cries 


And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends 

possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's 

scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  de- 
spising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's 

gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth 

brings 

That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with 
kings. 

xxxni 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign 

eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows 

green, 

Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy ; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace: 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all- triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow; 
But  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine; 
The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from 

me  now. 
Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  dis- 

daineth; 
Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's 

sun  staineth. 


LV 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rime; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these 

contents 

Than  unswept  stone  besmeared  with  slut- 
tish time. 

When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 
Nor  Mars  his  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire 
shall  burn 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  living  record  of  your  memory. 
'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth;  your  praise  shall  still 

find  room 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending 

doom. 

So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 

LX 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  peb- 
bled shore, 

So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes 

before, 

In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 
Crawls    to    maturity,    wherewith    being 

crowned, 

Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift 

confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on 

youth 

And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow, 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to 

mow: 
And  yet  to  times  in  hope  my  verse  shall 

stand, 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

LXVI 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I 

cry  — 

As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimmed  in  jollity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 
And  gilded  honor  shamefully  misplaced, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly  doctor-like  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscalled  simplicity, 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill: 
Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would 

I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 


LXXIII 

That   tune   of    year   thou   mayst   in   me 

behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do 

hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the 

cold, 
Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet 

birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take 

away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in 

rest. 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nour- 
ished by. 
This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love 

more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave 

ere  long. 

xcvn 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days 

seen! 

What    old    December's    bareness    every- 
where! 
And  yet  this  time  removed  was  summer's 

time, 

The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  in- 
crease, 

Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime, 
Like  widowed  wombs  after  their  lord's  de- 
cease: 

Yet  this  abundant  issue  seemed  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans  and  unfathered  fruit; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute; 
Or,  if  they  sing,  'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter 's 


near. 


XCVIII 


From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  April  dressed  in  all  his 
trim 


LYRIC  POETRY 


157 


Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped 

with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds  nor  the  sweet 

smell 

Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in  hue 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where 

they  grew; 

Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  de- 
light, 

Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow,  I  with  these  did  play. 

xcix 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide: 
Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy 

sweet  that  smells, 
If  not  from  my  love's  breath?    The  purple 

pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion 

dwells 
In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly 

dyed. 

The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand, 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stol'n  thy  hair. 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 
One  blushing  shame, another  white  despair; 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stol'n  of 

both 

And  to  his  robbery  had  annexed  thy  breath; 
But,  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see 
But  sweet  or  color  it  had  stol'n  from  thee. 

civ 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed, 
Such  seems  your  beauty  still.    Three  win- 
ters cold 

Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  sum- 
mers' pride, 
Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn 

turned 

in  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes 
burned 


Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are 
green. 

Ah!  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 

Steal  from  his  figure  and  no  pace  perceived ; 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still 
doth  stand, 

Hath  motion  and  mine  eye  may  be  de- 
ceived: 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  un- 
bred: 

Ere  you  were  born  was  beauty's  summer 
dead. 

cvi 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rime 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's 

best, 

Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  ex- 
pressed 

Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now- 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  tune,  all  you  prefiguring; 
And,  for  they  looked  but  with  divining 

eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to 

sing: 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present 

days, 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to 
praise. 

cxvi 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.    Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 
0,  no!  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 
That   looks   on   tempests   and   is   never 

shaken; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose   worth's   unknown,  although   his 

height  be  taken. 
Love 's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips 

and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and 

weeks, 


158 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


SIR  HENRY  WOTTON  (1568-1639) 

CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serve th  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise 
Nor  vice;  Who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good: 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend; 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


THOMAS  DEKKER  (is7o?-i638?) 

THE  HAPPY  HEART 

ART  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slum- 
bers? 

O  sweet  content! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplex'd? 

O  punishment! 

Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vex'd 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  num- 
bers? 


O  sweet  content!  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 

Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny ,  hey  nonny  nonny ! 

Canst  drink   the  waters  of   the  crisped 
spring? 

O  sweet  content! 

Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in 
thine  own  tears? 

O  punishment! 
Then  he   that  patiently  want's  burden 

bears 

No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king! 
O  sweet  content!  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny! 


BEN  JONSON  (iS73?-i637) 
SONG  TO  CELIA 

DRINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I  '11  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 


HYMN  TO  DIANA 

QUEEN   and   Huntress,  chaste  and 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellentlv  bright. 


fair 


,YRIC  POETRY 


159 


Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close: 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright! 


JOHN  FLETCHER  (1579-1625) 

MELANCHOLY 

HENCE,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly! 
There 's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see  't, 

But  only  melancholy; 

O  sweetest  melancholy! 

Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that 's  fastened  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound! 
Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan, 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon. 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy 

valley; 

Nothing 's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melan- 
choly. 


GEORGE  WITHER  (1588-1667) 

THE  LOVER'S  RESOLUTION 

SHALL  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die,  because  a  woman 's  fair? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care, 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 


Or  the  flowery  meads  hi  May! 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

Should  my  heart  be  grieved  or  pined, 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind? 

Or  a  well  disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder  than 

Turtle  dove,  or  pelican! 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love? 
Or  her  well  deserving  known, 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her,  name  of  best! 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool,  and  die? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind, 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 
Think  "What,  with  them,  they  would  do 
That,  without  them,  dare  to  woo!" 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  though  great  she  be? 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 

I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair! 

If  she  love  me  (this  believe!) 

I  will  die,  ere  she  shall  grieve! 

If  she  slight  me,  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn,  and  let  her  go! 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be? 


ROBERT  HERRICK  (1591-1674) 

UPON  JULIA'S  CLOTHES 

WHENAS  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 

Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 

The  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes,  and  see 
That  brave  vibration,  each  way  free, 
O,  how  that  glittering  taketh  me! 


I6o 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


To  THE  VIRGINS  TO  MAKE  MUCH  OF  TIME 

GATHER  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he 's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he 's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry; 

For,  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry. 


To  DAFFODILS 

FAIR  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon. 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  anything. 

We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

AN  ODE  FOR  BEN  JONSON 

AH,  BEN! 
Say  how  or  when 
Shall  we,  thy  guests, 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 


Made  at  the  Sun, 

The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun; 

Where  we  such  clusters  had, 

As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad? 

And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 

Out-did  the  meat,  out-did  the  frolic  wine. 

My  Ben! 
Or  come  again, 
Or  send  to  us 
Thy  wit's  great  overplus; 
But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  husband  it, 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend; 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 
That  precious  stock,  the  store 
Of  such  a  wit  the  world  should  have  no 
more. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY  ^1596-1666) 

THE  GLORIES  OF  OUR  BLOOD  AND  STATE 

THE  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate; 

Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings: 
Sceptre  and  Crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they 

kill: 

But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still: 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty 

deeds; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor- victim  bleeds: 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


161 


EDMUND  WALLER  (1606-1687) 

Go  LOVELY  ROSE! 

Go,  LOVELY  Rose! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that 's  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 

In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die!  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair! 


JOHN  MELTON  (1608-1674) 

SONNET  (ON  His  BLINDNESS) 

WHEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and 

wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to 

hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 

more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My    true    account,    lest    He    returning 

chide, — 

Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied? 
I  fondly  ask: — But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies;  God  doth  not 

need 
Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts:  who 

best 
Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best: 

His  state 


Is  kingly;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without 

rest: — 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING  (1609-1642) 
THE  CONSTANT  LOVER 

OUT  upon  it,  I  have  loved 
Three  whole  days  together! 

And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on 't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me: 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 


WHY  So  PALE  AND  WAN? 

WHY  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do  't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit  for  shame !    This  will  not  move; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her! 


102 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


RICHARD  LOVELACE  (1618-1658) 

To  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

TELL  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  hi  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  thou  too  shalt  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honor  more. 

To  ALTHEA,  FROM  PRISON 

WHEN  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  hi  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  hi  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  hi  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 

With  shriller  throat  will  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  king; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage; 


If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

HENRY  VAUGHAN  (1622-1695) 

THE  WORLD 

I  SAW  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright; 
And  round  beneath  it,  Tune,  in  hours, 

days,  years, 
Driv'n  by  the  spheres 
Like  a  vast  shadow  moved;  hi  which  the 

world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurled. 
The  doting  lover  in  his  quaintest  strain 

Did  there  complain; 
Near  him,  his  lute,  his  fancy,  and  his  flights, 

Wit's  four  delights, 
With  gloves,  and  knots,  the  silly  snares  of 

pleasure, 

Yet  his  dear  treasure, 
All  scattered  lay,  while  he  his  eyes  did  pour 
Upon  a  flower. 

The    darksome    statesman,    hung    with 

weights  and  woe, 
Like  a  thick  midnight-fog,  moved  there  so 

slow, 

He  did  not  stay,  nor  go; 
Condemning  thoughts,  like  sad  eclipses, 

scowl 

Upon  his  soul, 
And  clouds  of  crying  witnesses  without 

Pursued  him  with  one  shout. 
Yet  digged  the  mole,  and  lest  his  ways  be 

found, 

Worked  under  ground, 
Where  he  did  clutch  his  prey;  but  one  did  see 

That  policy; 
Churches  and  altars  fed  him;  perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  flies; 

It  rained  about  him  blood  and  tears,  but  he 
Drank  them  as  free. 

The  fearful  miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 

Sat  pining  all  his  life  there,  did  scarce 

trust 
His  own  hands  with  the  dust, 


LYTIC  POETRY 


163 


Yet  would  not  place  one  piece  above,  but 
lives 

In  fear  of  thieves. 
Thousands  there  were  as  frantic  as  himself, 

And  hugged  each  one  his  pelf; 
The  downright  epicure  placed  heaven  in 
sense, 

And  scorned  pretence; 
While  others,  slipt  into  a  wide  excess, 

Said  little  less; 

The  weaker  sort,  slight,  trivial  wares  en- 
slave, 

Who  think  them  brave; 
And  poor,  despised  Truth  sat  counting  by 

Their  victory. 

Yet  some,  who  all  this  while  did  weep  and 

sing, 
And  sing  and  weep,  soared  up  into  the 

ring; 

But  most  would  use  no  whig. 
O  fools,  said  I,  thus  to  prefer  dark  night 

Before  true  light! 
To  live  in  grots  and  caves,  and  hate  the 

day 

Because  it  shows  the  way, 
The  way,  which  from  this  dead  and  dark 

abode 

Leads  up  to  God; 
A  way  there  you  might  tread  the  sun, 

and  be 

More  bright  then  he! 
But,  as  I  did  their  madness  so  discuss, 

One  whispered  thus 
"This  ring  the  Bridegroom  did  for  none 

provide, 
But  for  his  bride." 


JOHN  DRYDEN  (1631-1700) 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 
OR  THE  POWER  OF  Music 

A  SONG  IN  HONOR  OF  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY 
I 

T  WAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son: 

Aloft  in  awful  state 

The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne; 


His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles 

bound 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned). 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy,  pair' 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

CHORUS:    Happy,  happy,  happy  pair,  etc, 


Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love). 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god: 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed: 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And   stamped   an   image   of   himself,   a 

sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty 

sound, 

A  present  deity,  they  shout  around; 
A  present  deity  the  vaulted  roofs  re- 
bound: 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

CHORUS:    With  ravished  ears,  etc. 


The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet 

musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 


Ib4 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face: 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes, 

he  comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

CHORUS:     Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treas- 
ure, etc. 


Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice 

he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse; 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed! 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor 

sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

CHORUS:    Revolving  in  his  altered  soul, 
etc. 


The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 


'T  was  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying: 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  ap- 
plause; 
So  love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the 

cause. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and 

looked, 

Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again; 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once 

oppressed, 

The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her 
breast. 

CHORUS:    The  prince,  unable  to  conceal 
his  pain,  etc. 


Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of 

thunder. 

Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  Furies  arise; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their 

eyes! 

Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle 
were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain 


LYRIC  POETRY 


165 


Inglorious  on  the  plain: 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal 

to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another 
Troy. 

CHORUS:    And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau 
with  zeal  to  destroy,  etc. 


Thus  long  ago, 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 

desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The   sweet  enthusiast,   from  her  sacred 

store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  un- 
known before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown: 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 


GRAND  CHORUS: 
came,  etc. 


At  last  divine  Cecilia 
(1697) 


THOMAS   GRAY  (1716-1771) 

ELEGY 
WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

THE  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 

The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary 

way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to 
me. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on 

the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning 

flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant 
folds; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  com- 
plain 
Of  such,  as  wandering  near  her  secret 

bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's 

shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould- 
ering heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  Forefathers  of   the  hamlet 
sleep. 

The    breezy    call    of    incense-breathing 

Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw- 
built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing 

horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their 
lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall 

burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to 
share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has 

broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team 

afield! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their 
sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 


i66 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth 
e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike  the  inevitable  hour. 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  These  the 

fault, 
If  Memory  o'er  their  Tomb  no  Trophies 

raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and 

fretted  vault 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of 
praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting 

breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  sooth  the  dull  cold  ear  of 
Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial 

fire; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 

swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample 

page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er 

unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean 

bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  bom  to  blush  un- 
seen, 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert 
air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  daunt- 
less breast 

The  little  Tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may 

rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's 
blood. 


The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  com- 
mand, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes 

confin'd; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a 

throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  man- 
kind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to 

hide, 
To   quench   the   blushes   of  ingenuous 

shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's 
flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble 

strife, 
Their    sober   wishes   never   learned   to 

stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their 
way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  pro- 
tect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculp- 
ture decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  un- 
lettered muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful 

day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  be- 
hind? 


LYRIC  POETRY 


167 


On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  re- 
lies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  re- 
quires ; 
Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature 

cries, 

Ev'n  hi  our  Ashes  live  their  wonted 
Fires. 


For  thee,  who  mindful  of  the  unhonored 

Dead 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  re- 
late, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  Spirit  shall  inquire  thy 
fate, 


Haply  some  hoary-headed  Swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of 
dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding 

beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so 

high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he 

stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles 
by. 


"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in 

scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would 

rove, 

Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  for- 
lorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hope- 
less love. 


"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed 

hill, 
Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favorite 

tree; 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was 
he; 


"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we 

saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read) 

the  lay, 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged 
thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A   Youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  un- 
known. 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble 

birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 
He  gained  from  Heaven  ('t  was  all  he 
wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread 
abode 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


ROBERT  BURNS  (1759-1796) 

HIGHLAND  MARY 

YE  BANKS,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel, 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom! 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


i68 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder; 
But  O!  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green  's  the  sod,  and  cauld  's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
And  mould'ring  now  in  silent  dust, 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

(i799) 

BONIE  BOON 

YE  FLOWERY  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care? 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days, 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate: 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  wood-bine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


(1808) 


SCOTS  WHA  HAE 

SCOTS,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victory! 


Now  's  the  day,  and  now 's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slavery! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee! 
Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa', 

Let  him  follow  me ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains, 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free! 
Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! — 

Let  us  do  or  die! 

(i794) 

A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT 

Is  THERE,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp ; 
The  man 's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden-gray,  an'  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He 's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


169 


A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man 's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth, 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth 
May  bear  the  gree,  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It 's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

(1800) 


FROM  "LINES  TO  JOHN  LAPRAIK" 

1  AM  nae  Poet,  in  a  sense, 

But  just  a  Rhymer  like  by  chance, 

An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence; 

Yet  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose, 
And  say,  "How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a  sang?" 
But,  by  your  leave,  my  learned  foes 

Ye  're  maybe  wrang. 

What 's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools, 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools? 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools, 

What  sairs  your  grammars? 
Ye  'd  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools, 

Or  knappin-hammers. 

A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes! 
They  gang  in  stirks  and  come  out  asses, 

Plain  truth  to  speak; 
An'  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 
That 's  a'  the  learnin  I  desire; 


Then,  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 

My  Muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 
May  touch  the  heart. 


(1786) 


To  A  MOUSE 


ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH  THE 
PLOUGH,  NOVEMBER,   1785 

WEE,    sleekit,    cowrin,   tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic 's  in  thy  breastie ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickerin  brattle! 
1  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 

Wi'  murd'rin  pattle! 

I  'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-bora  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve: 
What  then,  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request; 
I  '11  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave, 

An'  never  miss  't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

0'  foggage  green! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin 

Baith  snell  an'  keen! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast, 
An'  cozie  here  beneath  the  blast 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou  's  turn'd  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble 

An'  cranreuch  cauldl 


170 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But,  och!  I  backward  cast  my  ee 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 

(1786) 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

(1770-1850) 

THE  PRELUDE 
FROM  BOOK  I 

WISDOM  and  Spirit  of  the  universe! 
Thou  Soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought, 
That    givest    to    forms    and    images    a 

breath 

And  everlasting  motion,  not  in  vain 
By  day  or  star-light  thus  from  my  first 

dawn 

Of  childhood  didst  thou' intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human 

soul; 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of 

man, 
But   with   high   objects,   with   enduring 

things — 

With  life  and  nature — purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
And  sanctifying,  by  such  discipline, 
Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognize 
A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 
Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 
With    stinted    kindness.    In    November 

days, 

When  vapors  rolling  down  the  valley  made 
A   lonely  scene   more   lonesome,  among 

woods, 
At  noon  and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer 

nights, 
When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake, 


Beneath  the  gloomy  hills  homeward  I  went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine; 
Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and 

night, 
And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twi- 
light gloom, 

I  heeded  not  their  summons:  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us — for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture!    Clear  and  loud 
The  village  clock  tolled  six, — I  wheeled 

about, 

Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.    All  shod 

with  steel, 

We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding 

horn, 
The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted 

hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we 

flew, 

And  not  a  voice  was  idle;  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron;  while  far  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the 

stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the 

west 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 
Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous 

throng, 

To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star 
That  fled,   and,   flying  still  before  me, 

gleamed 

Upon  the  glassy  plain;  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to   the 

wind, 

And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spin- 
ning still 

The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 


LYRIC  POETRY 


171 


Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had 

rolled 

With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round! 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler    and    feebler,  and    I    stood   and 

watched 

Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep. 

(1850) 

LINES 

COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN 

ABBEY    ON    REVISITING    THE   BANKS    OP 

THE  WYE  DURING  A  TOUR 

JULY  13,  1798 

FIVE  years  have  past;  five  summers,  with 
the  length 

Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain- 
springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur — Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion;  and  con- 
nect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  or- 
chard-tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe 
fruits, 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  them- 
selves 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.    Once  again  I 
see 

These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little 
lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild;  these  pastoral 
farms, 

Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of 
smoke 

Sent  up  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees! 

With   some   uncertain   notice,   as   might 
seem, 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 

Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his 
fire 

The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 


Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to 

me 

As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye: 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration: — feelings,  too, 
Of  unremembered  pleasure:  such  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's 

_  life, 

His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of   aspect   more    sublime;    that   blessed 

mood, 

In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 
Is   lightened: — that   serene   and   blessed 

mood, 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul: 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the 

power 

Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh!  how  oft — 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart, 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 
O  sylvan  Wye!    Thou  wanderer  through 

the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee! 

And  now,   with  gleams  of  half-extin- 
guished thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again: 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing 

thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 


172 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


For  future  years.    And  so  I  dare  to  hope. 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I 

was  when  first 

I  came  among  these  hills;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led;  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads, 

than  one 

Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  na- 
ture then 

(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 
And    their   glad   animal   movements   all 

gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.    The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion:  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy 

wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to 

me 

An  appetite;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is 

past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.    Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other 

gifts 

Have  followed;  for  such  loss,  I  would  be- 
lieve, 
Abundant    recompense.       For     I     have 

learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  often- 
times 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample 

power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is   the  light  of  setting 

suns,  • 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of 

man: 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All   thinking   things,   all   objects   of   all 
thought, 


And  rolls  through  all  things.    Therefore 

am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  be- 
hold 
From  this  green  earth;  of  all  the  mighty 

world 
Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half 

create, 

And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recog- 
nize 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts    the 

nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and 

soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the 

more 

Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of    this    fair    river;    thou    my    dearest 

Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend;  and  in  thy  voice  I 

catch 

The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.    Oh!  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once 
My  dear,  dear  Sister!  and  this  prayer  I 

make 

Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;  't  is  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life, 

lead 

From  joy  to  joy :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With   lofty    thoughts,  that   neither   evil 

tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfis 

men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor 

all 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  We, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we 

hold 
Is  full  of  blessings.    Therefore  let   the 

moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk; 


LYRIC  POETRY 


173 


And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee:  and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  ma- 

tured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure  ;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh! 

then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing 

thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 
And  these  my  exhortations!  Nor,  per- 

chance — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes 

these  gleams 

Of  past  existence  —  wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful 

stream 

We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service:  rather  say 
With  warmer  love  —  oh!  with  far  deeper 

zeal 

Of  holier  love.  Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty 

cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to 

me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for 

thy  sake! 


THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

BEHOLD  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain, 
0  listen!  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travelers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands: 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 


In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago: 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

(1807) 

ODE  TO  DUTY 

STERN  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 
O  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 
And   calm'st    the   weary   strife   of   frail 
humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 

Be  on  them;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth; 

Glad  Hearts!  without  reproach  or  blot; 

Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 

O!  if  through  confidence  misplaced  they 

fail.. 
Thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power!  around 

them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 


174 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to 
their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried; 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly, 
if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their 

name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver!  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds; 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through 
Thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 
I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let 
me  live! 

(1807) 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

WHO  is  the  happy  Warrior?  Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 
It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when 

brought 

Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish 

thought: 


Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always 

bright: 

Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent 

to  learn; 

Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care; 
Who  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which   is   our   human   nature's   highest 

dower; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes, 

bereaves 

Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  re- 
ceives; 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to 

abate 

Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate; 
Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice; 
More  skillful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more 

pure, 

As  tempted  more;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress; 
Thence,  also  more  alive  to  tenderness. 
'T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends; 
Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted 

still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 
And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
He  labors  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows; 
Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Rises  by  open  means;  and  there  will  stam 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  th 

same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim; 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in 

wait 

For  wealth,  or  honors  or  for  worldly  state 
Whom  they  must  follow;  on  whose  heac 

must  fall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all 
Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  com 

mon  strife, 


LYRIC  POETRY 


175 


Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace ; 
But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has 

joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 
Is  happy  as  a  Lover;  and  attired 
With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  in- 
spired; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict  keeps  the 

law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  fore- 
saw; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 
He  who  though  thus  endued  as  with  a 

sense 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 
Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes; 
Sweet  images!  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
Are  at  his  heart;  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve; 
More  brave  for  this  that  he  hath  much  to 

love: — 

'T  is,  finally,  the  Man,  who.  lifted  high 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 
Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be 

won: 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand 

fast, 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast: 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the 

earth 

For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  fall  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name, 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering, 

draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  ap- 
plause: 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior;  this  is  He 
Whom  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

(1807) 


COMPOSED   UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE 
SEPT.  3,  1802 

EARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass 

by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples 

lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless 

air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 

(1807) 

IT  is  A  BEAUTEOUS  EVENING,  CALM  AND 
FREE 

IT  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free. 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun, 
Breathless  with  adoration:  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the 

sea; 

Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  that  walkest  with 

me  here, 
If    thou    appear    untouched    by    solemn 

thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the 

year, 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner 

shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

(1807) 

THE  WORLD  is  TOO  MUCH  WITH  Us 

THE  world  is  too  much  with  us:  late  and 

soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our 

powers; 


176 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid 

boon! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the 

moon; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping 

flowers; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God !  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less 

forlorn ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

(1807) 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

(1772-1834) 

KUBLA  KHAN 

IN  XANADU  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
i  So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous 

rills 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing 

tree; 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh!  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which 
slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was 
haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  tur- 
moil seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were 
breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced; 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding 
hail, 


Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and 

ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river 

ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to 

man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of 
ice! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight 't  would  win  me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware!  Beware! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dreaa, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

(1816) 


CHARLES  LAMB  (1775-1834) 

THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES 

I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  com- 
panions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful 
school-days; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


177 


1  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom 

cronies; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see 

her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my 
childhood, 

Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  trav- 
erse, 

Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a 

brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's 

dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they 

have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me;  all  are 

departed; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

(1798) 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

(1775-1864) 

ROSE  AYLMER 

AH,  WHAT  avails  the  sceptered  race, 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee.  (1806) 

ON  His  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY 

I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth 
my  strife, 

Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life, 

It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND 
A  NAVAL  ODE 

YE  MARINERS  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas, 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe, 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave  !  — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave; 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below  — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

(1801) 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC 

OF  NELSON  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly 

shone: 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a  bold  determined  hand, 
And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine, 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line; 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime; 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. — 

"Hearts  of  oak!''"  our  captain  cried;  when 

each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: — 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave; 

"Ye  are  brothers!  ye  are  men! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring: 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 

With  the  crews  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King." 


Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrewhis  shades  from  the  day ; 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
While  the  wine  cup  shines  in  light; 
And  yet  amid  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore! 

Brave  hearts:  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou, — 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their 

grave ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 
Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave!  (1803) 

HOHENLINDEN 

ON  LINDEN,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills,  with  thunder  riven; 
Then  rushed  the  steed,  to  battle  driven; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  Heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


179 


But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  crimsoned  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'T  is  morn ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 

Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.    On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave, 

And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet; 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet; 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 

Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulcher. 

(1803) 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM  (1784-1842) 

A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While  like  the  eagle  free 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There  's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
But  hark  the  music,  mariners! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 


BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER 
("BARRY  CORNWALL"  1787-1874) 

THE  SEA 

THE  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  sea! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds;  it  mocks  the 

skies; 
Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I  'm  on  the  sea!  I  'm  on  the  sea! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the 

deep, 
What  matter?    I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  Oh,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou'west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird   that  seeketh  its  mother's 

nest; 

And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise 

rolled, 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean-child! 

I  Ve  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 

Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life, 

With  wealth  to  spend,  and  a  power  to 

range, 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for 

change; 

And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  sea! 


i8o 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


LORD  BYRON  (1788-1824) 

SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

SHE  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling- 
place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 

(1815) 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

(1792-1822) 

To  A  SKYLARK 

HAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring 
ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  light'ning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just 
begun. 


The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 
delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven 
is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 
melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it 
heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows 
her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen 
it  from  the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  fault  with  too  much  sweet  the 
heavy-winged  thieves. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


181 


Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music 
doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so 
divine : 


Chorus  Hymenseal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hid- 
den want. 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  igno- 
rance of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be — 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest — but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad 
satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a 
crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of 
saddest  thought. 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 

I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delightful  sound — 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found — 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the 
ground! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then — as  I  am 
listening  now. 

(1820) 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

i 

O  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Au- 
tumn's being, 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the 
leaves  dead 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter 
fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic 

red, 

Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  O,  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and 

low, 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and 

fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in 

air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill: 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  O,  near! 


182 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ii 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's 

commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves 

are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven 

and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are 

spread 

On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim 

verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The    locks    of    the    approaching    storm. 

Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing 

night 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulcher, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst: 
O,  hear! 


in 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer 

dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled    by    the    coil    of    his    crystalline 

streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 
So  sweet,  the  sense  faults  picturing  them! 

Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far 

below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which 

wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 


Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with 

fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  O, 

hear! 

rv 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and 
share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The    comrade    of    thy   wanderings   over 

heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision;  I  would  ne'er  have 

striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore 

need. 

Oh!  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!    I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and 

bowed 
One  too  like  thee:  tameless,  and  swift,  and 

proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal 

tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit 

fierce, 
My  spirit!    Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new 

birth! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  man- 
kind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 


LYRIC  POETRY 


183 


The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!    0  wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  be- 
hind? 

(1820) 

THE  INDIAN  SERENADE 

I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright: 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me — who  knows  how? 
To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
The  Champak  odors  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart; — 
As  I  must  on  thine, 
O!  beloved  as  thou  art! 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

1  die!    I  faint!    I  fail! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast; — 
Oh!  press  it  to  thine  own  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

(1822) 

OZYMANDIAS 

I  MET  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said:    Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs 

of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.    Near  them,  on  the 

sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose 

frown, 

And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  com- 
mand, 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions 

read 
Which   yet   survive    (stamped  on   these 

lifeless  things), 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart 

that  fed; 


And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
"My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings; 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  de- 
spair!" 

Nothing  beside  remains.    Round  the  de- 
cay 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

(1819) 


JOHN  KEATS  (1795-1821) 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

THOU  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow 

time, 

Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 
A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our 

rhyme: 
What  leaf -fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy 

shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Teinpe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What   men   or   gods   are    these?    What 

maidens  loth? 

What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  es- 
cape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?    What  wild 
ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  un- 
heard 
Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes, 

play  on; 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  en- 
deared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst 

not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be 

bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou 

kiss 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do 

not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not 

thy  bliss, 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be 
fair! 


1 84 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Ah,  happy, happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring 

adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 
More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  love ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and 

cloyed, 

A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching 
tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 
To   what   green   altar,   O   mysterious 

priest, 

Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands 

dressed? 

What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious 

morn? 

And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape!    Fair  attitude!  with  brede 
Of    marble    men    and    maidens    over 

wrought, 
With  forest  branches  and   the   trodden 

weed; 
Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of 

thought 

As  doth  eternity:    Cold  Pastoral! 
When   old   age    shall   this   generation 

waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  hi  midst  of  other 

woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou 

say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"— that 

is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know.  (1820) 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

MY  HEART  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness 

pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had 
drunk, 


Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had 

sunk: 

'T  is  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happi- 
ness.— 

That  thou,  light  winged  Dryad  of  the 
trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  number- 
less, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage!  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved 

earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 
Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun- 
burnt mirth! 

O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippo- 

crene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the 
brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world 

unseen, 

And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the 
forest  dim: 


Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never 

known, 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other 

groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray 

hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  specter- 
thin,  and  dies; 

Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of 
sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous 

eyes, 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to- 
morrow. 


Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 
Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


18$ 


But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 
Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  re- 
tards: 

Already  with  thee!  tender  is  the  night, 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her 

throne, 

Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry 
Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the 

breezes  blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  wind- 
ing mossy  ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the 

boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each 

sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  en- 
dows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree 

wild; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglan- 
tine; 

Fast   fading  violets   covered   up   in 
leaves; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy 

wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  sum- 
mer eves. 

Darkling  I  listen;  and,  for  many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful 

Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused 

rime, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no 

pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul 
abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears 

in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal 

Bird! 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down : 


The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was 

heard 

In  ancient,  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a 

path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when, 

sick  for  home, 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn: 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on 

the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  hi  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn!  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 
To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole 

self! 

Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf, 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still 

stream, 

Up  the  hill-side;  and  now  't  is  buried 
deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades: 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 
Fled  is  that  music: — Do  I  wake  or 
sleep? 

(1819) 

To  AUTUMN 

SEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom  friend  of  the  maturing  sun : 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the 

thatch-eves  run; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage- 
trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the 

core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the 

hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never 

cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their 
clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may 
find 


i86 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing 

wind; 

Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while 

thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its 

twined  flowers: 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost 

keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours 
by  hou^s. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where 

are  they? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music 

too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying 

day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy 

hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats 

mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or 

dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly 

bourn; 
Hedge-crickets    sing:    and    now    with 

treble  soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden- 
croft; 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the 
skies. 

(1820) 


HYMN  TO  PAN 


O  THOU,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth 

hang 

From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life, 

death 

Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness; 
Who  lov'st  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels 

darken; 


And   through  whole  solemn  hours  dost 

sit,  and  hearken 

The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture 

breeds 

The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth; 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to    lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou 

now, 

By  thy  love's  milky  brow! 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan! 

O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet, 
turtles 

Passion     their     voices     cooingly     'mong 
.myrtles, 

What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 

Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the 
side 

Of  thine  enmossed  realms:    O  thou,  to 
whom 

Broad  leaved  fig  trees  even  now  fore-doom 

Then*  ripen'd  fruitage;  yellow  girted  bees 

Their  golden    honeycombs;    our    village 
leas 

Their  fairest-blossom'd  beans  and  pop- 
pied corn; 

The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  un- 
born, 

To   sing   for   thee;    low   creeping   straw 
berries 

Their  summer  coolness;  pent  up  butter- 
flies 

Their  freckled  wings;  yea,  the  fresh  bud- 
ding year 

All  its  completions — be  quickly  near, 

By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain 
pine, 

O  forester  divine! 

Thou,  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr 

flies 

For  willing  service;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half  sleeping 

fit; 

Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's 

maw; 

Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewildered  shepherds  to  their  path  again ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  maint 


LYRIC  POETRY 


187 


And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells, 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out- 
peeping; 

Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping, 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the 

crown 
With  silvery  oak  apples,  and  fir  cones 

brown — 

By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king! 

O  Hearkener  to  the  loud  clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating:  Winder  of  the 

horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender 

corn 
Anger  our  huntsman:  Breather  round  our 

farms, 
To  keep   off   mildews,   and  all  weather 

harms: 

Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a  swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors: 
Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 
The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their 

vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows! 

Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain:  be  still  the 

leaven, 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded 

earth 

Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth: 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity; 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea; 
An  element  filling  the  space  between; 
An  unknown — but  no  more:  we  humbly 

screen 

foreheads,  lowly 


With 


our 


uplift  hands 

bending, 
And  giving  out  a 

rending, 
Conjure    thee    to    receive    our    humble 

Paean, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean! 


shout  most  heaven- 


(1818) 


MUCH  have  I  traveled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms 

seen; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  de- 
mesne; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and 

bold: 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  sur- 
mise— 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

(1816) 


THOMAS  HOOD  (1798-1845) 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

ONE  more  Unfortunate, 

Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly. 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 


i88 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful: 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 

Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 

Where  was  her  home? 


Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun! 
O,  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 


Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  to  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 


The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 

Out  of  the  world! 

In  she  plunged  boldly — 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour! 


LYRIC  POETRY 


189 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

(1803-1882) 

DAYS* 

DAUGHTERS  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  faggots  in  their  hands. 
To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 
Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds 

them  all. 
I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the 

pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 

d857) 


HENRY  WADSWORTH 
LONGFELLOW  (1807-1882) 

SONNETS* 
PREFACED  TO  HIS  TRANSLATION  OF  DANTE 

OFT  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A.  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent 

feet 

Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 
Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 
And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to 

pray, 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 


How  strange  the  sculptures  that  adorn 

these  towers! 
This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded 

sleeves 

•Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  Houghton  MIfflin  Co. 


Birds  build  their  nests;  while  canopied 

with  leaves 
Parvis   and   portal   bloom   like   trellised 

bowers, 
And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of 

flowers! 
But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled 

eaves 
Watch  the  dead  Christ  between  the  living 

thieves, 
And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers! 

Ah!    From   what  agonies  of  heart  and 

brain, 

What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 
What  tenderness,  what  tears,  what  hatr 

of  wrong, 

What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song! 


I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  long  aisles,  O  poet  saturnine! 

And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace 
with  thine. 

The  air  is  rilled  with  some  unknown  per- 
fume; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 

For  thee  to  pass;  the  votive  tapers  shine; 

Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves 
of  pine, 

The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to 
tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below. 
And  then  a  voice  celestial  that  begins 
With  the  pathetic  words,  "Although  your 

sins 
As  scarlet  be,"  and  ends  with  "as  the 


snow. 


0  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty! 

O  bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor 

shines 

Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be! 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 
The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy! 

Thy  fame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the 

heights, 
Through  all  the  nations;  and  a  sound  is 

heard, 

As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 
Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 
In  their  own  language  hear  thy  wondrous 

word, 
And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  (1809-1849) 
To  HELEN 

HELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 
Like  those  Nicaean  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo!  hi  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand! 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land!  (1831) 

ISRAFEL 

And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a 
lute,  and  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's 
creatures. — Koran. 

IN  HEAVEN  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute; 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 

As  the  angel  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 
In  her  highest  noon, 
The  enamored  moon 


Blushes  with  love, 
While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 
(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 
Which  were  seven) 
Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 
By  which  he  sits  and  sings, 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 

Where  Love  's  a  grown-up  God, 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest: 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit : 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 

With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute: 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mute! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky.     (1831) 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 

Lo!    Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 
In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 


LYRIC  POETRY 


191 


Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst 

and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lif ting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-tune  of  that  town; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently, 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free: 
Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls, 
Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers, 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 
Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 
But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 
In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, — 
Not  the  gayly-jewelled  dead, 
Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed; 
For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 
Along  that  wilderness  of  glass; 
No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 
Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea; 
No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 
On  seas  less  hideously  serene! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide; 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  heaven! 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low; 


And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

(1831-1845) 

THE  RAVEN 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I 

pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of 

forgotten  lore, — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly 

there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at 

my  chamber  door. 
"  T  is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping 

at  my  chamber  door: 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the 
bleak  December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought 
its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  I 
had  sought  to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sor- 
row for  the  lost  Lenore, 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the 
angels  name  Lenore: 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of 
each  purple  curtain 

Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  ter- 
rors never  felt  before; 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my 
heart,  I  stood  repeating 

"  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at 
my  chamber  door, 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at 
my  chamber  door: 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitat- 
ing then  no  longer, 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your 
forgiveness  I  implore; 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently 
you  came  rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping 
at  my  chamber  door. 


IQ2 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — 
here  I  opened  wide  the  door: — 

Darkness    there  and   nothing 
more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I 

stood  there  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,   dreaming   dreams  no  mortal 

ever  dared  to  dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the 

stillness  gave  no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the 

whispered  word,  "Lenore?" 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured 

back  the  word,  "Lenore:" 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my 

soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat 

louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "surely  that  is  something 

at  my  window  lattice; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this 

mystery  explore; 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this 

mystery  explore: 

'T  is  the  wind  and  nothing 
more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with 

many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the 

saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  a 

minute  stopped  or  stayed  he; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched 

above  my  chamber  door, 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above 

my  chamber  door: 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing 
more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad 
fancy  into  smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the 
countenance  it  wore, — 

"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wander- 
ing from  the  Nightly  shore: 


Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the 
Night's  Plutonian  shore!" 

Quoth    the    Raven,   "Never- 
more." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to 

hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little 

relevancy  bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living 

human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird 

above  his  chamber  door, 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust 

above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "Never- 
more." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid 

bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one 

word  he  did  outpour, 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a 

feather  then  he  fluttered, 
Till   I   scarcely  more   than  muttered, — 

"Other  friends  have  flown  before; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my 

Hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "Never- 
more." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply 

so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its 

only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom 

unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his 

songs  one  burden  bore: 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy 

burden  bore 

Of  'Never — nevermore.'" 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy 

into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in 

front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook 

myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking   what    this 

ominous  bird  of  yore, 


LYRIC  POETRY 


What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt, 
and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant   in   croaking  "Never- 
more." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no 

syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned 

into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my 

head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the 

lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the 

lamplight  gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,   the  air  grew  denser, 

perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled 

on  the  tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent 

thee — by  these  angels  he  hath  sent 

thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy 

memories  of  Lenore! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and 

forget  this  lost  Lenore!" 

Quoth    the    Raven,   "Never- 
more." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet 
still,  if  bird  or  devil! 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  temp- 
est tossed  thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert 
land  enchanted — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me 
truly,  I  implore: 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — tell 
me — tell  me,  I  implore!" 

Quoth    the    Raven,    "Never- 
more." 

"  Prophet ! "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil — prophet 

still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by 

that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within 

the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lenore: 


Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom 
the  angels  name  Lenore!" 

Quoth    the    Raven,   "Never- 
more." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird 

or  fiend!"  I  shrieked,  upstarting: 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the 

Night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that 

lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken!  quit  the 

bust  above  my  door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and 

take  thy  form  from  off  my  door!" 
Quoth    the    Raven,  "Never- 
more." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sit- 
ting, still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my 
chamber  door; 

And  his  eyes  have  ah1  the  seeming  of  a 
demon's  that  is  dreaming, 

And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming 
throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor: 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that 
Hes  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore! 
(1845) 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 


IN  THE  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fab:  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

ii 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Tune  long  ago) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 


194 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


m 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

rv 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through   which   came   flowing,   flowing, 
flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 


But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate!) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

VI 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more.   (1839) 

ALFRED  TENNYSON  (1809-1892) 
THE  LOTOS-EATERS 

"COURAGE!"  he  said,  and  pointed  toward 
the  land, 

"This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shore- 
ward soon." 

In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 

In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 


All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

swoon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary 

dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the 

moon; 
And,  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender 

stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall 

did  seem. 


A  land  of  streams!  some,  like  a  downward 
smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did 
go; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shad- 
ows broke, 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land;  far  off,  three  moun- 
tain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flush'd;  and,  dew'd  with 
showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 
woven  copse. 


The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  West;  thro'  mountain  clefts 

the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding 

vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale; 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd 

the  same! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The   mild-eyed   melancholy  Lotos-eaters 

came. 


Branches   they   bore  of  that  enchanted 

stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they 

gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them 
And   taste,   to  him   the  gushing  of  the 

wave 


LYRIC  POETRY 


Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and 

rave 

On  alien  shores;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 

grave; 

And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 
did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 

Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore; 

And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 

Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;  but  ever- 
more 

Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the 
oar, 

Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren 
foam. 

Then  some  one  said,  "We  will  return  no 
more;" 

\nd  all  at  once  they  sang,  "Our  island 
home 

Is  far  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no  longer 
roam." 

CHORIC  SONG 


There  is   sweet  music  here   that  softer 

falls 

Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on   still  waters  between 

walls 

Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from 

the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers 

weep, 
And  from  the   craggy  ledge  the  poppy 

hangs  in  sleep. 

n 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heavi- 
ness, 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 
While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weari- 
ness? 


All  things  have  rest:  why  should  we  toil 

alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 
And  make  perpetual  moan, 
Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown; 
Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 
And  cease  from  wanderings, 
Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy 

balm; 

Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 
"There  is  no  joy  but  calm!" — 
Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 

crown  of  things? 


m 

Lo!  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 
The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no 

care, 

Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  hi  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed;  and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 
Lo!  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days 
The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 
Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no 

toil, 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


IV 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be? 
Let  us  alone.    Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.    What  is  it  that  will  last? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  past. 
Let  us  alone.    What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the 

grave 

In  silence — ripen,  fall,  and  cease: 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or 

dreamful  ease. 


196 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward 
stream, 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half -dream! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber 
light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on 
the  height; 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melan- 
choly; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 
memory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an 
urn  of  brass! 


VI 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears;  but  all  hath  suffer 'd 

change; 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are 

cold, 

Our  sons  inherit  us,  our  looks  are  strange, 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble 

joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel 

sings 

Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten 

things. 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile; 
'T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many  wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the 

pilot-stars. 


vn 

But,  propped  on  beds  of  amaranth  and 

moly, 
How    sweet — while    warm    airs    lull    us, 

blowing  lowly — 
With  half-dropped  eyelids  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing 

slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined 

vine — 

To  watch  the  emerald-color'd  water  fall- 
ing 
Thro'   many   a   woven   acanthus-wreath 

divine! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling 

brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out 

beneath  the  pine. 


vra 

The    Lotos    blooms    below    the    barren 

peak, 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek; 
All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mel- 
lower tone; 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the 

yellow  Lotos-dust  is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of 

motion  we, 
Roll'd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard, 

when  the  surge  was  seething  free, 
Where  the  wallowing    monster    spouted 

his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an 

equal  mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie 

reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless 

of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the 

bolts  are  hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 

clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with 

the  gleaming  world- 


LYRIC  POETRY 


197 


Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over 

wasted  lands, 

Blight    and    famine,    plague  and    earth- 
quake,   roaring   deeps    and    fiery 

sands, 
Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and 

sinking  snips,  and  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centered 

in  a  doleful  song 

Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  an- 
cient tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words 

are  strong; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that 

cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with 

enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some, 

't  is  whisper'd — down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian 

valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of 

asphodel. 
Surely,    surely,    slumber   is   more   sweet 

than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind 

and  wave  and  oar; 
O,  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not 

wander  more. 

(1833) 


ULYSSES 

IT  LITTLE  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 

crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 

dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,   and   sleep,   and   feed,  and 

know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel;  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.    All  times  I  have  en- 

joy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with 

those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and 

when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 


Vext  the  dun  sea.    I  am  become  a  name; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known, — cities  of 

men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them 

all  — 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro" 
Gleams    that    untravell'd    world    whose 

margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life!    Life  piled 

on  lif  e 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains;  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From    that    eternal    silence,    something 

more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things:  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond    the    utmost    bound    of    human 

thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  scepter  and  the  isle, — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfill 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make 

mild 

A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centered  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I 

mine. 

There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her 

sail; 
There  gloom  the  dark,  broad  seas.    My 

mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me, — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 


198 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Free  hearts,  free  foreheads, — you  and  I 

are  old; 

Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil. 
Death  closes  all;  but  something  ere  the 

end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be 

done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with 

Gods. 
The   lights   begin   to    twinkle   from   the 

rocks; 
The  long  day  wanes;  the  slow  moon  climbs; 

the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come, 

my  friends, 

'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose 

holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us 

down; 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles  whom  we  knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and 

tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in 

old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven,  that  which  we 

are,  we  are, — 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  tune  and  fate,  but  strong 

in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to 

yield. 

(1842) 

LYRICS  FROM  "THE  PRINCESS" 

TEARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they 

mean, 

Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  de- 
spair 

Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on 

a  sail, 

That   brings   our   friends   up   from    the 
underworld, 


Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 

verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 

more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 

dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering 

square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  axe  no 

more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy 

feign'd 

On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  re- 
gret; 

O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no 
more!  (1847-1850) 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 

Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O,  hark,  O,  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O,  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  reply- 
ing, 

Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 

And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

(1850) 


LYRIC  POETRY 


199 


LYRICS  FROM  "IN  MEMORIAM" 
vn 

DARK  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more — 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here;  but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 


IX 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

/Ill  night  no  ruder  ah*  perplex 
Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

3hall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 


Thou  bring'st  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'd  men  from  foreign  lands: 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands; 

And  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him;  we  have  idle  dreams; 
This  look  of  quiet  natters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies.     0,  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 
That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine, 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine, 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


XI 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief. 
And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground; 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold. 

And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the 
furze, 

And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 
That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold; 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And    crowded    farms    and    lessening 
towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  mam; 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall, 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair: 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 
And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep 


200 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


LIV 

O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream;  but  what  am  I? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night; 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light, 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

LV 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  hie, 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 
And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


LVl 

"  So  careful  of  the  type?  "  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "A  thousand  types  are  gone; 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me: 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death; 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath: 

I  know  no  more."    And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his  creed— 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills? 

No  more?    A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.    Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

(1850) 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  or  THE  DUKE  OF 
WELLINGTON 


BURY  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation; 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To   the  noise  of   the  mourning  of  a 

mighty  nation; 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


2OI 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 

deplore? 

Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

ni 

Lead  out  the  pageant:  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  past, 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  hi  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute! 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  tune, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 

drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fallen  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 

that  blew! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  hie  is  o'er. 
The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be 

seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done, 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 


And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd, 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds. 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd, 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 

roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross; 
And   the  volleying   cannon   thunder  his 

loss; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom. 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame, 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain 

taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 
To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song! 

VI 

"Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor'd 

guest, 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier 

and  with  priest, 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on 

my  rest?"- 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous 

man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes; 
For  this  is  he 


202 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

His  foes  were  thine;  he  kept  us  free; 

O,  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee; 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 

Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won» 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes, 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing 

wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings; 
Till   one   that   sought   but   Duty's  iron 

crown 
On  that  loud  Sabbath  shook  the  spoiler 

down; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair! 
Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square, 
Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves 

away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew; 
Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and 

overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 
And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 
0  savior  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 


O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all. 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 

thine! 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


VII 

A  people's  voice!  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  for- 
get, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless 

Powers, 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly 

set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming 

showers, 
We  have  a  voice  with  which  to  pay  the 

debt 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  re- 
gret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept 

it  ours. 
And  kept    it    ours,  0  God,  from  brute 

control! 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye, 

the  soul 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 

sown 

Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 

springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings! 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of 

mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts; 


LYRIC  POETRY 


203 


He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 

wall; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever;  and  whatever  tempests  lour 
For  ever  silent;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 

spoke; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and 

low; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe; 
Whose   eighty   winters   freeze   with   one 

rebuke 
All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 

right. 
Truth-teller    was    our   England's   Alfred 

named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke! 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

vm 

Lo !  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And   affluent    Fortune    emptied   all   her 

horn. 

Yea,  let  aU  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  out-redden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 


Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has 

won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 
Shall  find   the   toppling   crags  of  Duty 

scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 

sun. 

Such  was  he:  his  work  is  done. 
But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 

pure; 

Pill  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory. 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved 

from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


DC 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see. 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung. 

0  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 

brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain! 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere; 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane: 
We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 


204 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will, 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 

roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 

trust. 
Hush,    the    Dead    March    wails   in    the 

people's  ears; 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are 

sobs  and  tears; 

The  black  earth  yawns;  the  mortal  dis- 
appears; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 
Gone,  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave 

him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him, 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him! 

(1852) 


LYRIC  FROM  "MAUD' 


PART  I 


A  VOICE  by  the  cedar  tree 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 

A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call! 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 

In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 

Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 

Ready  hi  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 

To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny 
sky, 

And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English 
green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her 
grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that  can- 
not die, 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid 
and  mean, 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still!    I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a 

choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 
Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore, 
Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 

(1855) 

CROSSING  THE  BAR* 

SUNSET  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When   that   which   drew   from   out   the 
boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Tune  and 

Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

(1889) 

*"A  few  days  before  his  death  he  said  to  me:  'Mind  you 
put  Crossing  the  Bar  at  the  end  of  all  editions  of  my  poems.' " 
(Life  of  Tennyson,  II.,  367.) 


LYRIC  POETRY 


205 


ROBERT  BROWNING  (1812-1889) 
MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

FEKRARA 

THAT  's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the 

wall, 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now:  Fra  Pandolf's 

hands 

Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will  't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?  I 

said 

"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you   that  pictured   coun- 
tenance, 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts 

by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they 

durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the 

first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was 

not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that 

spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "Her  mantle 

laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat:"  such 

stuff 
Was  courtesy,   she   thought,   and  cause 

enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.  She  had 
A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made 

glad, 

Too  easily  impressed;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  every- 
where. 

Sir , '  t  was  all  one !  My  favor  at  her  breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  hi  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white 

mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and 

each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving 

speech, 


Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — 

good!  but  thanked 
Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she 

ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With   anybody's   gift.     Who'd  stoop  to 

blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make 

your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just 

this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made 

excuse, 
— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and 

I  choose 
Never  to  stoop.    Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no 

doubt, 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed 

without 
Much  the  same  smile?    This  grew;  I  gave 

commands; 
Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.    There 

she  stands 
As   if   alive.    Will    't   please   you    rise? 

We'll  meet 

The  company  below  then.    I  repeat, 
The  Count  your  master's  known  muni- 
ficence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretense 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
Though   his   fair    daughter's   self,    as   I 

avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.    Nay,  we'll  go 
Together    down,    sir.    Notice    Neptune, 

though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze 

for  me! 

(1842) 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT 

THE  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land; 
And  the  yellow  half -moon  large  and  low; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 


ao6 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears; 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys 

and  fears, 

Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each ! 

(1845) 

PARTING  AT  MORNING 

ROUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's 

rim: 

And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 

(1845) 

HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  SEA 

NOBLY,  nobly,  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the 

Northwest  died  away; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking 

into  Cadiz  Bay; 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face 

Trafalgar  lay; 
In  the  dimmest  Northeast  distance  dawned 

Gibraltar,  grand  and  gray; 
"Here  and  here  did  England  help  me:  how 

can  I  help  England?" — say, 
Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to 

God  to  praise  and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent 

over  Africa. 

(1845) 

THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  His  TOMB  AT 
SAINT  PRAXED'S  CHURCH 

ROME,  15 — 

VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity! 
Draw  round  my  bed:  is  Anselm  keeping 

back? 
Nephews — sons  mine    .     .     .    ah  God,  I 

know  not?    Well — 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother 

once, 

Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fan-  she  was! 
What 's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead 

beside, 

Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves. 


And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world  's 

a  dream. 

Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night, 

I  ask 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"    Peace,  peace 

seems  all. 
Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for 

peace; 
And    so,    about    this    tomb    of   mine.     I 

fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche, 

ye  know: 
— Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my 

care; 
Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the 

corner  South 
He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse 

the  same! 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but 

thence 

One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side, 
And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent 

seats, 

And  up  into  the  very  dome  where  live 
The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam 's  sure  to  lurk. 
And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 
And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 
With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two 

and  two, 
The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm 

stands: 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 
As  fresh  poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty 

pulse. 

— Old    Gandolf   with    his    paltry   onion- 
stone, 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him!    True 

peach, 

Rosy  and  flawless:  how  I  earned  the  prize! 
Draw    close:    that    conflagration    of   my 

church 
— What   then?    So  much   was   saved  if 

aught  were  missed! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death? 

Go  dig 

The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil- 
press  stood, 

Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 
And  if  ye  find    ...     Ah  God,  I  knovt 

not,  I!     ... 


LYRIC  POETRY 


207 


Bedded  In  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft, 
And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 
Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 
Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 
Blue    as    a    vein    o'er    the    Madonna's 

breast     .    .     . 
Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you.  villas, 

all, 

The  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 
So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my 

knees, 
Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his 

hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 
For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and 

burst! 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years: 
Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he? 
Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons? 

Black— 
'T  was  ever  antique-black  I  meant!  How 

else 
Shall   ye    contrast    my    frieze    to    come 

beneath? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 
Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and 

perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 
The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 
Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  gar- 
ment off, 
And  Moses  with  the  tables    .    .    .    but  I 

know 
Ye  mark  me  not!    What  do  they  whisper 

thee, 
Child  of  my  bowels,   Anselm?    Ah,  ye 

hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 
Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldly  tra- 
vertine 
Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles 

at! 
Nay,   boys,   ye  love  me — all  of  jasper, 

then! 
'T  is  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I 

grieve 
My   bath   must   needs   be   left   behind, 

alas! 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio  nut, 
There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the 

world — 


And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 
Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manu- 
scripts, 
And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly 

limbs? 

— That 's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 
Choice    Latin,    picked    phrase,    Tully's 

every  word, 
No   gaudy   ware   like   Gandolf's   second 

line — 
Tully,  my  masters?      Ulpian  serves  his 

need! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries, 
And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 
And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 
And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 
Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense- 
smoke! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 
Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 
I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 
And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as 

stone  can  point, 
And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth, 

drop 
Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's- 

work: 
And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange 

thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 
About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 
And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and 

priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking 

eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 
And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  dis- 
creet, 

— Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT  quoth  our  friend? 
No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best! 
Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 
All  lapis,  all,  sons!    Else  I  give  the  Pope 
My  villas!    Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart? 
Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 
They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my 

soul, 
Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished 

frieze, 
Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my 

vase 
With  grapes,  and  add  a  visor  and  a  Term, 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 
That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus 
.  down, 

,  To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 
Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"    There,  leave 

me,  there! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 
To  death  —  ye  wish  it  —  God,  ye  wish  it! 

Stone  — 
Gritstone,    a-crumble!    Clammy   squares 

which  sweat 
As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing 

through  — 

And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world! 
Well,  go!  I  bless  ye.  Fewer  tapers  there, 
But  in  a  row:  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 
—  Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 
And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church 

for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers  — 
Old    Gandolf  —  at    me,    from   his   onion- 

stone, 
As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was!* 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 
CALLED   "THE   FAULTLESS  PAINTER" 

Bur  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia;  bear  with  me  for  once: 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your 

heart? 
Ill  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend, 

never  fear, 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too,  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.    Will  it?  ten- 

derly? 
Oh,    I'll    content    him,  —  but    to-morrow, 

Love! 

*"I  know  no  other  piece  of  modem  English,  prose  or 
poetry,  in  which  there  is  so  much  told,  as  in  these  lines,  of  the 
Renaissance  spirit,  —  its  worldliness,  inconsistency,  pride, 
hypocrisy,  ignorance  of  itself,  love  of  art,  of  luxury,  and  of 
good  Latin.  It  is  nearly  all  that  I  said  of  the  central  Renais- 
sance in  thirty  pages  of  the  Stones  of  Vtniee,  pat  into  as  many 
lines.  Browning's  being  also  the  antecedent  work.  The  worst 
of  it  is  that  this  kind  of  concentrated  writing  needs  so  much 
solution  before  the  reader  can  fairly  get  the  good  of  it,  that 
people's  patience  fails  them,  and  they  give  the  thing  up  as  in- 
•ohjble;  though,  truly,  it  ought  to  be  to  the  current  of  common 
'.bought  like  Saladin's  talisman,  dipped  in  clear  water,  not 
toluble  altogether,  but  making  the  element  medicinal." 

UMfc) 


I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This   evening  more   than   usual,   and  it 

seems 
As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me 

sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in 

mine 

And  look  a  half -hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.    Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for 

this! 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls 

inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither;  you 

must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require: 
It  saves  a  model.  So!  keep  looking  so — 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds ! 
— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect 

ears, 

Even  to  put  the  pearl  there!  oh,  so  sweet — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his. 
And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 
While  she  looks — no  one's:  very  dear,  no 

less. 
You  smile?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready 

made, 

There 's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony ! 
A  common  grayness  silvers  everything, — 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 
— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in 

me 
(That 's  gone  you  know), — but  I,  at  every 

point; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all 

toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 
There  's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel- 
top; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden;  days  de- 
crease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 
Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 
As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 


LYRIC  POETRY 


209 


A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's 

hand. 
How  strange  now  looks  the  life  he  makes 

us  lead; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are! 
I  feel  he  kid  the  fetter:  let  it  lie! 
This    chamber    for    example — turn    your 

head — 

All  that's  behind  us!    You  don't  under- 
stand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 
But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people 

speak: 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 
—It  is  the  thing,  Love!  so  such  thing 

should  be — 

Behold  Madonna! — I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 
What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 
Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 
I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are  judge, 
Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last 

week, 
And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in 

France. 

At  any  rate,  't  is  easy,  all  of  it! 
No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that 's  long 

past: 

I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives, 
—Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to 

do, 
And  fail  in  doing.    I  could  count  twenty 

such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this 

town, 
Who   strive — you   don't   know   how   the 

others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — 
Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone 

says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much 

less! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia:  I  am  judged. 
There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 
In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and 

stopped-up  brain, 
Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to 

prompt 
This    low-pulsed    forthright    craftsman's 

hand  of  mine. 


Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  them- 
selves, I  know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that 's  shut 
to  me, 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure 
enough, 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell 
the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit 
here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men!  at  a 
word — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it 
boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself,  and  to  myself, 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's 
blame 

Or  their  praise  either.  Somebody  re- 
marks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken;  what  of  that?  or  else, 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered;  what  of 
that? 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  moun- 
tain care? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his 
grasp, 

Or  what 's  a  heaven  for?    All  is  silver-gray 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art:  the  worse! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might 
gain, 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  wouldhave  o'erlookedthe  world !" 
No  doubt. 

Yonder 's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous 
youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 

('T  is  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to 
see, 

Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish 
him, 

Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives 
way; 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put — and  there 
again — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak:  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right— that,  a  child  may  under- 
stand. 


210 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Still,  what  an  arm!  and  I  could  alter  it: 
But  all   the  play,   the  insight   and   the 

stretch — 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me !    And  wherefore  out? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me 

soul, 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you ! 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I 

think- 
More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 
But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect 

brow, 
And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect 

mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a 

bird 
The   fowler's  pipe,   and   follows   to   the 

snare — 
Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought 

a  mind! 
Some  women  do  so.    Had  the  mouth  there 

urged 

"  God  and  the  glory!  never  care  for  gain. 
The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo! 
Rafael  is  waiting:  up  to  God,  all  three!" 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems: 
Perhaps  not.    All  is  as  God  overrules. 
Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's 

self; 

The  rest  avail  not.    Why  do  I  need  you? 
What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 
And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive: 
Yet  the  will 's  somewhat — somewhat,  too, 

the  power — 
And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.    At  the 

end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'T  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the 

truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all 

day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 
But  they  speak  sometimes;  I  must  bear  it 

all. 
Well  may  they  speak!  That  Francis,  that 

first  tune, 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau! 


I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the 

ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden 

look, — 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the 

smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my 

neck, 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his 

eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of 

souls 
Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those 

hearts, — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  be- 
yond, 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my 

work, 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless    .     .     . 

but  I  know — 

'T  is  done  and  past:  't  was  right,  my  in- 
stinct said: 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not 

gray, 
And  I  'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should 

tempt 
Out  of  his  grange  whose  four  walls  make 

his  world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your 

heart. 
The  triumph  was — to  reach  and  stay  there; 

since 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your 

hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine! 
"Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife"- 
Men  will  excuse  me.    I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence;  clearer 

grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 


LYRIC  POETRY 


211 


To  Rafael    ...    I  have  known  it  all 

these  years     .     .     . 
(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his 

thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 
"  Friend,  there  's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 
Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares 

how, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 
As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and 

kings, 
Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of 


yours 


yet,  only  you  to 


To    Rafael's! — And   indeed    the   arm    is 

wrong. 
I  hardly  dare    .     . 

see, 
Give  the  chalk  here — quick,  thus  the  line 

should  go ! 

Ay,  but  the  soul!  he 's  Rafael!  rub  it  out! 
Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth 
(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 
Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those?), 
If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, — 
Is,    whether   you  're — not    grateful — but 

more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  in- 
deed! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour!    Another 

smile? 

If  you  would  sit  tnus  by  me  every  night 
I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you 

more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;  there 's  a  star; 
Morello  's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the 

wall, 
The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them 

by. 
Come  from  the  window,  Love, — come  in, 

at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 
King   Francis   may   forgive   me;   oft   at 

nights, 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired 

out, 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from 

brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright 

gold, 


That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.  Must  you  go? 
That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside? 
Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me? 

Those  loans? 
More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for 

that? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me!  have  you  more  to 

spend? 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a 

heart 
Are  left  me,  work  's  my  ware,  and  what 's 

it  worth? 

I  '11  pay  my  fancy.    Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in 

France, 
One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's 

face, 
Not  yours  this  time!    I  want  you  at  my 

side 

To  hear  them — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 
Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 
Will  you?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 
I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 
Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there, 

there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 
If  he   demurs;  the  whole  should  prove 

enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.    Be- 
side, 

What 's  better  and  what 's  all  I  care  about, 
Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff! 
Love,  does  that  please  you?    Ah,  but  what 

does  he, 
The  Cousin!  what  does  he  to  please  you 

more? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter 

it? 

The  very  wrong  to  Francis! — it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is 

said. 

My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich!    Let  each  one  bear  his 

lot. 


212 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor 

they  died: 

And  I  have  labored  somewhat  hi  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good 

son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him 

try! 
No   doubt,    there's  something   strikes   a 

balance.    Yes, 

You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to- 
night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.    What  would 

one  have? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more 

chance — 

Four  great  walls  in  the  new  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine!     So — still  they  over- 
come 
Because  there 's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle!    Go,  my  Love. 

(i8S5) 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA 

GROW  old  along  with  me! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was 

made: 

Our  times  are  in  his  hand 
Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God:  see  all, 

nor  be  afraid!" 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?  " 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends, 
transcends  them  all!" 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate:  folly  wide  the  mark! 
Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without,  • 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a 
spark. 


Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  a  feast: 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men: 
Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets  doubt 
the  maw-crammed  beast? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  that  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take, 
I  must  believe. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but 

go! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never 

grudge  the  throe! 

For  thence, — a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me: 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not 
sink  i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs 

want  play? 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its 

lone  way? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use: 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn: 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 
Should  not  the  heart   beat  once 
good  to  live  and  learn?" 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  thine! 
I  see  the  whole  design, 


LYRIC  POETRY 


213 


I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  Love  perfect 

too: 

Perfect  I  call  thy  plan: 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 
Maker,  remake,  complete, — I  trust  what 

thou  shalt  do!" 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for 

rest: 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we 

did  best! 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon 

the  whole!" 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now, 

than  flesh  helps  soul!" 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its 

term: 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute;  a  God  though 

in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and 

new: 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to 

indue. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold: 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know, 
being  c^d 


For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the 
gray: 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots — "Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth:  here  dies  an- 
other day." 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at 

last, 

"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 
That  acquiescence  vain: 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved 

the  Past." 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day: 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the 
tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,   than  repose  on  aught 

found  made: 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.    Thou  waitedst  age:  wait  death 

nor  be  afraid! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand 

thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let 

thee  feel  alone. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give 
us  peace  at  last ! 


214 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 
Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 
Match  me;  we  all  surmise, 
They  this  thing,  and  I  that:  whom  shall 
my  scul  believe? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had 

the  price; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found   straightway   to   its   mind,   could 

value  hi  a  trice: 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  ac- 
count; 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled 
the  man's  amount: 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and 

escaped; 

All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel 

the  pitcher  shaped. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor!  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our 

clay  — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past 

gone,  seize  to-day!" 

Fool!    All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God 

stand  sure: 

What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops:  Potter 

and  clay  endure. 


He  fixed  thee  'mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  would  fain 

arrest: 

Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently 

impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and 

press? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner 

stress? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up! 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trum- 
pet's peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The  master's  lips  aglow! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what 
needst  thou  with  earth's  wheel? 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was 

worst, 

Did  I — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 
Bound  dizzily — mistake  my  end,  to  slake 

thy  thirst: 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work: 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings 

past  the  aim! 
My  times  be  in  thy  hand! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death 

complete  the  same! 

(1864) 

PROSPICE 

FEAR    death? — to   feel    the    fog   in   my 

throat, 
The  mist  in  my  face, 


LYRIC  POETRY 


215 


When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts 

denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the 

storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,   the  Arch  Fear  in  a 

visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit 

attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle 's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon 

be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my 

eyes,  and  forbore 
And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare 

like  my  peers 
The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad 

life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to 

the  brave, 

The  black  minute 's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices 

that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace 

out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
0  thou  soul  of  my  soul!    I  shall  clasp 

thee  again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest! 

(1864) 


ASOLANDO 
EPILOGUE 

Ax  THE  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep- 
time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools 

think,  imprisoned — 

Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom 
you  loved  so, — 
— Pity  me? 


Oh,  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mis- 
taken ! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the 

unmanly? 

Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I 
drivel 

— Being — who? 

One   who   never    turned    his   back    but 

marched  breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never     dreamed,     though     right     were 

worsted,  wrong  would  triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight 
better, 

Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's 

work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid  him  forward,   breast  and  back  as 

either  should  be, 

"Strive  and  thrive!"  cry  "Speed, — fight 
on,  fare  ever 

There  as  here!" 

(1890) 

WALT  WHITMAN  (1819-1892) 
O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN! 

O  CAPTAIN!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip 

is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the 

prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the 

people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the 

vessel  grim  and  daring; 
But  0  heart!  heart!  heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  hes; 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  rise  up  aiid  hear 

the  bells; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you 

the  bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — 

for  you  the  shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their 

eager  faces  turning: 


2l6 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head! 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You  've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are 

pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no 

pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its 

voyage  closed  and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in 

with  object  won; 
Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead.     (1865) 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD  (1822-1888) 

DOVER  BEACH 

THE  sea  is  calm  to-night, 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits; — on  the  French  coast 

the  light 
Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  cliffs  of  England 

stand, 
Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil 

bay. 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night- 
air! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd 

land, 

Listen!  you  hear  the  grating  roar 
Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back, 

and  fling, 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 
Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  ^Egaean,  and  it  brought 
Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 
Of  human  misery;  we 
Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 
Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round 
earth's  shore 


Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furFd . 

But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 

Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges 

drear 

And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 
Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 
To  one  another!  for  the  world,  which 

seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,   nor 

light, 
Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for 

pain; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle 

and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

(1867) 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 
(1837-1909) 

CHORUSES  FROM  "ATALANTA  IN  CALYDON" 
CHORUS 

WHEN  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 

traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or 

plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign 

faces, 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying 

of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 
With   a  clamor   of   waters,   and  with 

might; 

Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west 

shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of 
the  night. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


217 


fyhere  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing 

to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and 

cling? 
0  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 

spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that 

spring! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  ding 

to  her, 

And  the  southwest-wind,  and  the  west- 
wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  tight  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  traveling  foot, 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year 

flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes; 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 
Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 

The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its 
leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 


To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that 

scare 

The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that 
flies. 

CHORUS 

Before  the  beginning  of  years 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven; 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  heaven, 

And  madness  risen  from  hell; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite; 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light, 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 
And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears, 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea; 

And  dust  of  the  laboring  earth; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth; 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow, 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a 

span 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife; 
They  breathed  upon  his  mouth, 

They  filled  his  body  with  life; 
Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  tune  for  labor  and  thought, 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin; 
They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways, 

And  love,  and  a  space  for  delight, 
And  beauty  and  length  of  days, 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night. 
His  speech  is  a  burning  fire; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth; 
In  his  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death; 


2l8 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 

CHORUS 

We  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair; 

thou  art  goodly,  O  Love; 
Thy  wings  make  light  in  the  air  as  the 

wings  of  a  dove. 
Thy  feet  are  as  winds  that  divide  the 

stream  of  the  sea; 
Earth  is  thy  covering  to  hide  thee,  the 

garment  of  thee. 
Thou  art  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a 

flame  of  fire; 
Before  thee  the  laughter,  behind  thee  the 

tears  of  desire; 
And  twain  go  forth  beside  thee,  a  man  with 

a  maid; 

Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  a  bride  whom  de- 
light makes  afraid; 
As  the  breath  in  the  buds  that  stir  is  her 

bridal  breath: 
But  Fate  is  the  name  of  her;  and  his  name 

is  Death.  (1865) 

IN  THE  WATER 

THE  sea  is  awake,  and  the  sound  of  the 

song  of  the  joy  of  her  waking  is 

rolled 
From  afar  to  the  star  that  recedes,  from 

anear  to  the  wastes  of  the  wild  wide 

shore. 

Her  call  is  a  trumpet  compelling  us  home- 
ward: if  dawn  in  her  east  be  acold, 
From  the  sea  shall  we  crave  not  her  grace 

to  rekindle  the  life  that  it  kindled 

before, 
Her  breath  to  requicken,  her  bosom  to 

rock  us,  her  kisses  to  bless  as  of 

yore? 
For  the  wind,  with  his  wings  half  open,  at 

pause  in  the  sky,  neither  fettered 

nor  free, 
Leans  waveward  and  flutters  the  ripple  to 

laughter:  and  fain  would  the  twain 

of  us  be 
Where  lightly  the  waves  yearn  forward 

from  under  the  curve  of  the  deep 

dawn's  dome. 


And,  full  of  the  morning  and  fired  with 

the  pride  of  the  glory  thereof  and 

the  glee, 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in 

us  bids  and  beseeches,  athirst  for 

the  foam. 

Life  holds  not  an  hour  that  is  better  to 

live  in:  the  past  is  a  tale  that  is  told, 
The  future  a  sun-flecked  shadow,  alive  and 

asleep,  with  a  blessing  in  store. 
As  we  give  us  again  to  the  waters,  the  rap- 
ture of  limbs  that  the  waters  enfold 
Is  less  than  the  rapture  of  spirit  whereby, 

though  the  burden  it  quits  were 

sore, 
Our  souls  and  the  bodies  they  wield  at 

their  will  are  absorbed  in  the  life 

they  adore — 
In  the  life  that  endures  no  burden,  and 

bows  not  the  forehead,  and  bends 

not  the  knee — 
In  the  life  everlasting  of  earth  and  of 

heaven,  in  the  laws  that  atone  and 

agree, 
In  the  measureless  music  of  things,  in  the 

fervor  of  forces  that  rest  or  that 

roam, 
That  cross  and  return  and  reissue,  as  I 

after  you  and  as  you  after  me 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in 

us  bids  and  beseeches,  athirst  for 

the  foam. 

For,  albeit  he  were  less  than  the  least  of 

them,  haply  the  heart  of  a  man  may 

be  bold 
To  rejoice  in  the  word  of  the  sea  as  a 

mother's  that  saith  to  the  son  she 

bore, 
Child,  was  not  the  life  in  thee  mine,  and 

my  spirit  the  breath  in  thy  lips 

from  of  old? 
Have  I  let  not  thy  weakness  exult  in  my 

strength,  and  thy  foolishness  learn 

of  my  lore  ? 
Have  I  helped  not  or  healed  not  thine 

anguish,   or  made  not   the  might 

of  thy  gladness  more? 
And  surely  his  heart  should  answer,  The 

light  of  the  love  of  my  life  is  La 

thee. 


LYRIC  POETRY 


219 


She  is  fairer  than  earth,  and  the  sun  is 
not  fairer,  the  wind  is  not  blither 
than  she: 

From  my  youth  hath  she  shown  me  the 
joy  of  her  bays  that  I  crossed,  of 
her  cliffs  that  I  clomb, 

Till  now  that  the  twain  of  us  here,  in  de- 
sire of  the  dawn  and  in  thrust  of 
the  sea, 

Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in 
us  bids  and  beseeches,  athirst  for 
the  foam. 

Friend,  earth  is  a  harbor  of  refuge  for 

winter,  a  covert  whereunder  to  flee 
When  day  is  the  vassal  of  night,  and  the 

strength  of  the  host  of  her  mightier 

than  he; 
But  here  is  the  presence  adored  of  me, 

here  my  desire  is  at  rest  and  at 

home. 
There  are  cliffs  to  be  climbed  upon  land, 

there  are  ways  to  be  trodden  and 

ridden:  but  we 
Strike  out  from  the  shore  as  the  heart  in  us 

bids  and  beseeches,  athirst  for  the 

foam. 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 
(1849-1903) 

INVICTUS 

OUT  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  or  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds  and  shall  find  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 
How    charged    with   punishments    the 
scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate: 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING  (1865-        ) 
RECESSIONAL 

GOD  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line — 

Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart — 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in 
awe — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 
And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard, — 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 

Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord!    AMEN. 


LIEUTENANT-COLONEL  JOHN 
McCRAE  (1872-1918) 

IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS* 

IN  FLANDERS  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place;  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly, 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

*From  "In  Flanders  Fields  and  Other  Poems"  by  Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel John  McCrae.  Courtesy  of  G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons,  Publishers. 


22O 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


We  are  the  Dead.     Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 


Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe; 
To  you  from  falling  hands  we  throw 

The  torch;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 

If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 


RUPERT  BROOKE  (1887-1915) 
THE  SOLDIER* 

IF  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me; 
That  there 's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  forever  England.    There  shall  be 
In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped;  made 

aware, 
Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways 

to  roam; 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English 

air, 
Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of 

home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 
Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by 

England  given; 
Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as 

her  day; 

•From  "The  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke."  Pub- 
lished and  copyright,  1915,  by  the  John  Lane  Company,  New 
York. 


And    laughter,    learnt    of    friends,    and 

gentleness, 
In  hearts   at  peace,   under  an   English 

heaven. 

ALAN  SEEGER  (1888-1916) 
I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH! 

I  HAVE  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  some  disputed  barricade, 
When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling 

shade 

And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air — 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and 

fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 
And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 
And    close    my    eyes    and    quench    my 

breath — 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 
When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

God  knows  't  were  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear    .  .  . 
But  I  've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

t  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


HERODOTUS  (49o?-426?  B.  C.) 

Herodotus,  the  Father  of  History,  has  compiled  a  fascinating  story  of  the  invasion  of  Greece  by  the 
Persians  and  their  expulsion  by  the  Greek  states.  Overweening  pride  challenges  the  envy  of  the 
Gods  and  is  smitten  with  the  divine  wrath.  His  greatness  lies  in  an  extraordinary  story-telling  gift 
which  led  him  to  recount  many  tales  as  authentic  that  are  now  regarded  as  of  mythological  origin 
The  following  extracts  from  his  history  telling  of  the  heroic  actions  of  Greece  will  speak  for  themselves! 

The  translation  is  by  George  Rawlinson. 


BATTLE  OF  MARATHON 

THE  Persians,  having  thus  brought 
Eretria  into  subjection  after  waiting  a 
few  days,  made  sail  for  Attica,  greatly 
straitening  the  Athenians  as  they  ap- 
proached, and  thinking  to  deal  with  them 
as  they  had  dealt  with  the  people  of  Ere- 
tria. And,  because  there  was  no  place  in 
all  Attica  so  convenient  for  their  horse  as 
Marathon,  and  it  lay  moreover  quite  close 
to  Eretria,  therefore  Hippias,  the  son  of 
Pisistratus,  conducted  them  thither. 

When  intelligence  of  this  reached  the 
Athenians,  they  likewise  marched  their 
troops  to  Marathon,  and  there  stood  on 
the  defensive,  having  at  their  head  ten 
generals,  of  whom  one  was  Miltiades. 

Now  this  man's  father,  Cimon,  the  son 
of  Stesagoras,  was  banished  from  Athens 
by  Pisistratus,  the  son  of  Hippocrates. 
In  his  banishment  it  was  his  fortune  to 
win  the  four-horse  chariot-race  at  Olym- 
pia,  whereby  he  gained  the  very  same 
honor  which  had  before  been  carried  off  by 
Miltiades,  his  half-brother  on  the  mother's 
side.  At  the  next  Olympiad  he  won  the 
orize  again  with  the  same  mares;  upon 
which  he  caused  Pisistratus  to  be  pro- 
claimed the  winner,  having  made  an  agree- 
ment with  him  that  on  yielding  him  this 
honor  he  should  be  allowed  to  come  back 
to  his  country.  Afterwards,  still  with  the 
same  mares,  he  won  the  prize  a  third  time ; 
whereupon  he  was  put  to  death  by  the 
sons  of  Pisistratus,  whose  father  was  no 
longer  living.  They  set  men  to  lie  in  wait 


for  him  secretly;  and  these  men  slew  him 
near  the  government-house  in  the  night- 
time. He  was  buried  outside  the  city, 
beyond  what  is  called  the  Valley  Road; 
and  right  opposite  his  tomb  were  buried 
the  mares  which  had  won  the  three  prizes. 
The  same  success  had  likewise  been 
achieved  once  previously,  to  wit,  by  the 
mares  of  Evagoras  the  Lacedaemonian, 
but  never  except  by  them.  At  the  time 
of  Cimon's  death  Stesagoras,  the  elder  of 
his  two  sons,  was  in  the  Chersonese,  where 
he  lived  with  Miltiades  his  uncle;  the 
younger,  who  was  called  Miltiades  after 
the  founder  of  the  Chersonesite  colony, 
was  with  his  father  in  Athens. 

It  was  this  Miltiades  who  now  com- 
manded the  Athenians,  after  escaping  from 
the  Chersonese,  and  twice  nearly  losing  his 
life.  First  he  was  chased  as  far  as  Imbrus 
by  the  Phoenicians,  who  had  a  great  desire 
to  take  him  and  carry  him  up  to  the  king; 
and  when  he  had  avoided  this  danger,  and, 
having  reached  his  own  country,  thought 
himself  to  be  altogether  in  safety,  he  found 
his  enemies  waiting  for  him,  and  was  cited 
by  them  before  a  court  and  impeached  for 
his  tyranny  in  the  Chersonese.  But  he 
came  off  victorious  here  likewise,  and  was 
thereupon  made  general  of  the  Athenians 
by  the  free  choice  of  the  people. 

And  first,  before  they  left  the  city,  the 
generals  sent  off  to  Sparta  a  herald,  one 
Pheidippides,  who  was  by  birth  an  Athen- 
ian, and  by  profession  and  practice  a 
trained  runner.  This  man,  according  to 
the  account  which  he  gave  to  the  Athe- 


222 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


nians  on  his  return,  when  he  was  near 
Mount  Parthenium,  above  Tegea,  fell  in 
with  the  god  Pan,  who  called  him  by  his 
name,  and  bade  him  ask  the  Athenians 
"wherefore  they  neglected  him  so  entirely, 
when  he  was  kindly  disposed  towards 
them,  and  had  often  helped  them  in  times 
past,  and  would  do  so  again  in  time  to 
come?"  The  Athenians,  entirely  believ- 
ing in  the  truth  of  this  report,  as  soon  as 
their  affairs  were  once  more  in  good  order, 
set  up  a  temple  to  Pan  under  the  Acro- 
polis, and,  in  return  for  the  message  which 
I  have  recorded,  established  in  his  honor 
yearly  sacrifices  and  a  torch-race. 

On  the  occasion  of  which  we  speak, 
when  Pheidippides  was  sent  by  the  Athen- 
ian generals,  and,  according  to  his  own 
account,  saw  Pan  on  his  journey,  he 
reached  Sparta  on  the  very  next  day  after 
quitting  the  city  of  Athens.  Upon  his 
arrival  he  went  before  the  rulers,  and  said 
to  them — 

"Men  of  Lacedaemon,  the  Athenians 
beseech  you  to  hasten  to  their  aid,  and 
not  allow  that  state,  which  is  the  most 
ancient  in  all  Greece,  to  be  enslaved  by 
the  barbarians.  Eretria,  look  you,  is 
already  carried  away  captive;  and  Greece 
weakened  by  the  loss  of  no  mean  city." 

Thus  did  Pheidippides  deliver  the  mes- 
sage committed  to  him.  And  the  Spartans 
wished  to  help  the  Athenians,  but  were 
unable  to  give  them  any  present  succor, 
as  they  did  not  like  to  break  their  estab- 
lished law.  It  was  then  the  ninth  day 
of  the  first  decade;  and  they  could  not 
march  .out  of  Sparta  on  the  ninth,  when 
the  moon  had  not  reached  the  full.  So 
they  waited  for  the  full  of  the  moon. 

The  barbarians  were  conducted  to 
Marathon  by  Hippias,  the  son  of  Pisis- 
tratus,  who  the  night  before  had  seen  a 
strange  vision  in  his  sleep.  He  dreamt  of 
lying  in  his  mother's  arms,  and  conjec- 
tured the  dream  to  mean  that  he  would 
be  restored  to  Athens,  recover  the  power 
which  he  had  lost,  and  afterwards  live  to  a 
good  old  age  in  his  native  country.  Such 
was  the  sense  in  which  he  interpreted  the 
vision.  He  now  proceeded  to  act  as 
guide  to  the  Persians;  and,  in  the  first 


place,  he  landed  the  prisoners  taken  from 
Eretria  upon  the  island  that  is  called 
^Egileia,  a  tract  belonging  to  the  Styreans, 
after  which  he  brought  the  fleet  to  anchor 
off  Marathon,  and  marshalled  the  bands 
of  the  barbarians  as  they  disembarked. 
As  he  was  thus  employed  it  chanced  that 
he  sneezed  and  at  the  same  time  coughed 
with  more  violence  than  was  his  wont. 
Now,  as  he  was  a  man  advanced  in  years, 
and  the  greater  number  of  his  teeth  were 
loose,  it  so  happened  that  one  of  them  was 
driven  out  with  the  force  of  the  cough, 
and  fell  down  into  the  sand.  Hippias 
took  all  the  pains  he  could  to  find  it;  but 
the  tooth  was  nowhere  to  be  seen:  where- 
upon he  fetched  a  deep  sigh,  and  said  to 
the  bystanders — 

"After  all,  the  land  is  not  ours;  and  we 
shall  never  be  able  to  bring  it  under.  All 
my  share  in  it  is  the  portion  of  which  my 
tooth  has  possession." 

So  Hippias  believed  that  in  this  way  his 
dream  was  out. 

The  Athenians  were  drawn  up  in  order 
of  battle  in  a  sacred  close  belonging  to 
Hercules,  when  they  were  joined  by  the 
Plataeans,  who  came  in  full  force  to  their 
aid.  Some  time  before,  the  Plataeans  had 
put  themselves  under  the  rule  of  the 
Athenians;  and  these  last  had  already 
undertaken  many  labors  on  their  behalf. 
The  occasion  of  the  surrender  was  the 
following.  The  Plataeans  suffered  griev- 
ous things  at  the  hands  of  the  men  of 
Thebes;  so,  as  it  chanced  that  Cleomenes, 
the  son  of  Anaxandridas,  and  the  Lacedae- 
monians were  in  their  neighborhood,  they 
first  of  all  offered  to  surrender  themselves 
to  them.  But  the  Lacedaemonians  re- 
fused to  receive  them,  and  said — 

"We  dwell  too  far  off  from  you,  and 
ours  would  be  but  chill  succor.  Ye 
might  oftentimes  be  carried  into  slavery 
before  one  of  us  heard  of  it.  We  counsel 
you  rather  to  give  yourselves  up  to  the 
Athenians,  who  are  your  next  neighbors, 
and  well  able  to  shelter  you." 

This  they  said,  not  so  much  out  of  good 
will  towards  the  Plataeans  as  because  they 
wished  to  involve  the  Athenians  in  trouble 
by  engaging  them  in  wars  with  the  Bceo- 


HISTORY 


223 


tians.  The  Plataeans,  however,  when  the 
Lacedaemonians  gave  them  this  counsel, 
complied  at  once;  and  when  the  sacrifice 
to  the  Twelve  Gods  was  being  offered  at 
Athens,  they  came  and  sat  as  suppliants 
about  the  altar,  and  gave  themselves  up 
to  the  Athenians.  The  Thebans  no  sooner 
learnt  what  the  Plataeans  had  done  than 
instantly  they  marched  out  against  them, 
while  the  Athenians  sent  troops  to  their 
aid.  As  the  two  armies  were  about  to 
join  battle,  the  Corinthians,  who  chanced 
to  be  at  hand,  would  not  allow  them  to 
engage ;  both  sides  consented  to  take  them 
for  arbitrators,  whereupon  they  made  up 
the  quarrel,  and  fixed  the  boundary-line 
between  the  two  states  upon  this  condition: 
to  wit,  that  if  any  of  the  Boeotians  wished 
no  longer  to  belong  to  Bceotia,  the  Thebans 
should  allow  them  to  follow  their  own 
inclinations.  The  Corinthians,  when  they 
had  thus  decreed,  forthwith  departed  to 
their  homes:  the  Athenians  likewise  set 
off  on  their  return;  but  the  Boeotians  fell 
upon  them  during  the  march,  and  a  battle 
was  fought  wherein  they  were  worsted  by 
the  Athenians.  Hereupon  these  last  would 
not  be  bound  by  the  line  which  the 
Corinthians  had  fixed,  but  advanced  be- 
yond those  limits,  and  made  the  As6pus 
the  boundary-line  between  the  country 
of  the  Thebans  and  that  of  the  Plataeans 
and  Hysians.  Under  such  circumstances 
did  the  Plataeans  give  themselves  up  to 
Athens;  and  now  they  were  come  to  Mara- 
thon to  bear  the  Athenians  aid. 

The  Athenian  generals  were  divided  in 
their  opinions;  and  some  advised  not  to 
risk  a  battle,  because  they  were  too  few 
to  engage  such  a  host  as  that  of  the  Medes, 
while  others  were  for  fighting  at  once;  and 
among  these  last  was  Miltiades.  He 
therefore,  seeing  that  opinions  were  thus 
divided,  and  that  the  less  worthy  counsel 
appeared  likely  to  prevail,  resolved  to  go 
to  the  polemarch,  and  have  a  conference 
with  him.  For  the  man  on  whom  the  lot 
fell  to  be  polemarch  at  Athens  was  en- 
titled to  give  his  vote  with  the  ten  gen- 
erals, since  anciently  the  Athenians  al- 
lowed him  an  equal  right  of  voting  with 
them.  The  polemarch  at  this  juncture 


was  Callimachus  of  Aphidnae;  to  him  there- 
fore Miltiades  went,  and  said: — 

"With  thee  it  rests,  Callimachus,  either 
to  bring  Athens  to  slavery,  or,  by  securing 
her  freedom,  to  leave  behind  thee  to  all 
future  generations  a  memory  beyond  even 
Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton.  For  never 
since  the  time  that  the  Athenians  became 
a  people  were  they  in  so  great  a  danger 
as  now.  If  they  bow  their  necks  beneath 
the  yoke  of  the  Medes,  the  woes  which 
they  will  have  to  suffer  when  given  into 
the  power  of  Hippias  are  already  deter- 
mined on;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  they  fight 
and  overcome,  Athens  may  rise  to  be  the 
very  first  city  in  Greece.  How  it  comes 
to  pass  that  these  things  are  likely  to 
happen,  and  how  the  determining  of  them 
in  some  sort  rests  with  thee,  I  will  now 
proceed  to  make  clear.  We  generals  are 
ten  in  number,  and  our  votes  are  divided; 
half  of  us  wish  to  engage,  half  to  avoid  a 
combat.  Now,  if  we  do  not  fight,  I  look 
to  see  a  great  disturbance  at  Athens  which 
will  shake  men's  resolutions,  and  then  I 
fear  they  will  submit  themselves ;  but  if  we 
fight  the  battle  before  any  unsoundness 
show  itself  among  our  citizens,  let  the 
gods  but  give  us  fair  play,  and  we  are  well 
able  to  overcome  the  enemy.  On  thee 
therefore  we  depend  in  this  matter,  which 
lies  wholly  in  thine  own  power.  Thou 
hast  only  to  add  thy  vote  to  my  side  and 
thy  country  will  be  free,  and  not  free  only, 
but  the  first  state  in  Greece.  Or,  if  thou 
preferrest  to  give  thy  vote  to  them  who 
would  decline  the  combat,  then  the  re- 
verse will  follow." 

Miltiades  by  these  words  gained  Calli- 
machus; and  the  addition  of  the  pole- 
march's  vote  caused  the  decision  to  be  in 
favor  of  fighting.  Hereupon  all  those 
generals  who  had  been  desirous  of  hazard- 
ing a  battle,  when  their  turn  came  to  com- 
mand the  army,  gave  up  their  right  to 
Miltiades.  He  however,  though  he  ac- 
cepted their  offers,  nevertheless  waited, 
and  would  not  fight,  until  his  own  day  of 
command  arrived  in  due  course. 

Then  at  length,  when  his  own  turn  was 
come,  the  Athenian  battle  was  set  in  ar- 
ray, and  this  was  the  order  of  it.  Calli- 


224 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


machus  the  polemarch  led  the  right  wing; 
for  it  was  at  that  time  a  rule  with  the 
Athenians  to  give  the  right  wing  to  the 
polemarch.  After  this  followed  the  tribes, 
iccording  as  they  were  numbered,  in  an 
unbroken  line;  while  last  of  all  came  the 
Plateans,  forming  the  left  wing.  And 
ever  since  that  day  it  has  been  a  custom 
with  the  Athenians,  in  the  sacrifices  and 
assemblies  held  each  fifth  year  at  Athens, 
for  the  Athenian  herald  to  implore  the 
blessing  of  the  gods  on  the  Plataeans  con- 
jointly with  the  Athenians.  Now,  as  they 
marshalled  the  host  upon  the  field  of 
Marathon,  in  order  that  the  Athenian 
front  might  be  of  equal  length  with  the 
Median,  the  ranks  of  the  center  were 
diminished,  and  it  became  the  weakest 
part  of  the  line,  while  the  wings  were  both 
made  strong  with  a  depth  of  many  ranks. 

So  when  the  battle  was  set  in  array, 
and  the  victims  showed  themselves  favor- 
able, instantly  the  Athenians,  so  soon  as 
they  were  let  go,  charged  the  barbarians 
at  a  run.  Now  the  distance  between  the 
two  armies  was  little  short  of  eight  fur- 
longs. The  Persians,  therefore,  when  they 
saw  the  Greeks  coming  on  at  speed,  made 
ready  to  receive  them,  although  it  seemed 
to  them  that  the  Athenians  were  bereft  of 
their  senses,  and  bent  upon  their  own 
destruction;  for  they  saw  a  mere  handful 
of  men  coming  on  at  a  run  without  either 
horsemen  or  archers.  Such  was  the  opin- 
ion of  the  barbarians;  but  the  Athenians 
in  close  array  fell  upon  them,  and  fought 
in  a  manner  worthy  of  being  recorded. 
They  were  the  first  of  the  Greeks,  so  far 
as  I  know,  who  introduced  the  custom  of 
charging  the  enemy  at  a  run,  and  they 
were  likewise  the  first  who  dared  to  look 
upon  the  Median  garb,  and  to  face  men 
clad  in  that  fashion.  Until  this  time  the 
very  name  of  the  Medes  had  been  a  terror 
to  the  Greeks  to  hear. 

The  two  armies  fought  together  on  the 
plain  of  Marathon  for  a  length  of  time; 
and  in  the  mid  battle,  where  the  Persians 
themselves  and  the  Sacae  had  their  place, 
the  barbarians  were  victorious,  and  broke 
and  pursued  the  Greeks  into  the  inner 
country;  but  on  the  two  wings  the  Athe- 


nians and  the  Platseans  defeated  the 
enemy.  Having  so  done,  they  suffered  the 
routed  barbarians  to  fly  at  their  ease, 
and  joining  the  two  wings  in  one,  fell 
upon  those  who  had  broken  their  own 
center,  and  fought  and  conquered  them. 
These  likewise  fled,  and  now  the  Athenians 
hung  upon  the  runaways  and  cut  them 
down,  chasing  them  all  the  way  to  the 
shore,  on  reaching  which  they  laid  hold 
of  the  ships  and  called  aloud  for  fire. 

It  was  in  the  struggle  here  that  Calli- 
machus  the  polemarch,  after  greatly  dis- 
tinguishing himself,  lost  his  life;  Stesilavis 
too,  the  son  of  Thrasilaiis,  one  of  the  gen- 
erals, was  slain;  and  Cynsegirus,  the  son  of 
Euphorion,  having  seized  on  a  vessel  of 
the  enemy's  by  the  ornament  at  the  stern, 
had  his  hand  cut  off  by  the  blow  of  an 
axe,  and  so  perished;  as  likewise  did  many 
other  Athenians  of  note  and  name. 

Nevertheless  the  Athenians  secured  in 
this  way  seven  of  the  vessels;  while  with 
the  remainder  the  barbarians  pushed  off, 
and  taking  aboard  their  Eretrian  prisoners 
from  the  island  where  they  had  left  them 
doubled  Cape  Sunium,  hoping  to  reach 
Athens  before  the  return  of  the  Athenians. 
The  Alcmseonidae  were  accused  by  their 
countrymen  of  suggesting  this  course  to 
them;  they  had,  it  was  said,  an  understand- 
ing with  the  Persians,  and  made  a  signal 
to  them,  by  raising  a  shield,  after  they 
were  embarked  in  their  ships. 

The  Persians  accordingly  sailed  round 
Sunium.  But  the  Athenians  with  all 
possible  speed  marched  away  to  the  de- 
fence of  their  city,  and  succeeded  in  reach- 
ing Athens  before  the  appearance  of  the 
barbarians:  and  as  their  camp  at  Marathon 
had  been  pitched  in  a  precinct  of  Hercules, 
so  now  they  encamped  in  another  precinct 
of  the  same  god  at  Cynosarges.  The  bar- 
barian fleet  arrived,  and  lay  to  off  Pha- 
lerum,  which  was  at  that  time  the  haven 
of  Athens;  but  after  resting  awhile  upon 
their  oars,  they  departed  and  sailed  away 
to  Asia. 

There  fell  in  this  battle  of  Marathon, 
on  the  side  of  the  barbarians,  about  six 
thousand  and  four  hundred  men;  on  that 
of  the  Athenians,  one  hundred  and  ninety- 


HISTORY 


225 


two.  Such  was  the  number  of  the  skin 
on  the  one  side  and  the  other.  A  strange 
prodigy  likewise  happened  at  this  fight. 
Epizelus,  the  son  of  Cuphagoras,  an  Athe- 
nian, was  in  the  thick  of  the  fray,  and 
behaving  himself  as  a  brave  man  should, 
when  suddenly  he  was  stricken  with  blind- 
ness, without  blow  of  sword  or  dart;  and 
this  blindness  continued  thenceforth  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  his  after  life.  The  follow- 
ing is  the  account  which  he  himself,  as  I 
have  heard,  gave  of  the  matter:  he  said 
that  a  gigantic  warrior,  with  a  huge  beard, 
which  shaded  all  his  shield,  stood  over 
against  him;  but  the  ghostly  semblance 
passed  him  by,  and  slew  the  man  at  his 
side.  Such,  as  I  understand,  was  the 
tale  which  Epizelus  told. 

THERMOPYLAE 

KING  XERXES  pitched  his  camp  in  the 
region  of  Malis  called  Trachinia,  while 
on  their  side  the  Greeks  occupied  the 
straits.  These  straits  the  Greeks  in  gen- 
eral call  Thermopylae  (the  Hot  Gates); 
but  the  natives,  and  those  who  dwell  in 
the  neighborhood,  call  them  Pylae  (the 
Gates).  Here  then  the  two  armies  took 
their  stand;  the  one  master  of  all  the  region 
lying  north  of  Trachis,  the  other  of  the 
country  extending  southward  of  that  place 
to  the  verge  of  the  continent. 

The  Greeks  who  at  this  spot  awaited 
the  coming  of  Xerxes  were  the  following: — 
From  Sparta,  three  hundred  men-at-arms: 
from  Arcadia,  a  thousand  Tegeans  and 
Mantineans,  five  hundred  of  each  people; 
a  hundred  and  twenty  Orchomenians, 
from  the  Arcadian  Orchomenus;  and  a 
thousand  from  other  cities:  from  Corinth, 
four  hundred  men:  from  Phlius,  two  hun- 
dred: and  from  Mycenae  eighty.  Such 
>was  the  number  from  the  Peloponnese. 
There  were  also  present,  from  Boeotia, 
seven  hundred  Thespians  and  four  hundred 
Thebans. 

.  Besides  these  troops,  the  Locrians  of 
Opus  and  the  Phocians  had  obeyed  the 
call  of  their  countrymen,  and  sent,  the 
former  all  the  force  they  had,  the  latter  a 
thousand  men.  For  envoys  had  gone 


from  the  Greeks  at  Thermopylae  among  the 
Locrians  and  Phocians,  to  call  on  them 
for  assistance,  and  to  say — "They  were 
themselves  but  the  vanguard  of  the  host, 
sent  to  precede  the  main  body,  which 
might  every  day  be  expected  to  follow 
them.  The  sea  was  in  good  keeping, 
watched  by  the  Athenians,  the  Eginetans, 
and  the  rest  of  the  fleet.  There  was  no 
cause  why  they  should  fear;  for  after  all 
the  invader  was  not  a  god  but  a  man; 
and  there  never  had  been,  and  never' 
would  be,  a  man  who  was  not  liable  to] 
misfortunes  from  the  very  day  of  his  birth, 
and  those  misfortunes  greater  in  propor- 
tion to  his  own  greatness.  The  assailant 
therefore,  being  only  a  mortal,  must  needs 
fall  from  his  glory."  Thus  urged,  the 
Locrians  and  the  Phocians  had  come  with 
then-  troops  to  Trachis. 

The  various  nations  had  each  captains 
of  their  own  under  whom  they  served; 
but  the  one  to  whom  all  especially  looked 
up,  and  who  had  the  command  of  the 
entire  force,  was  the  Lacedaemonian, 
Leonidas.  Now  Leonidas  was  the  son  of 
Anaxandridas,  who  was  the  son  of  Leo, 
who  was  the  son  of  Eurycratidas,  who  was 
the  son  of  Anaxander,  who  was  the  son 
of  Eurycrates,  who  was  the  son  of  Poly- 
ddrus,  who  was  the  son  of  Alcamenes, 
who  was  the  son  of  Telecles,  who  was  the 
son  of  Archelaiis,  who  was  the  son  of 
Agesilaiis,  who  was  the  son  of  Doryssus, 
who  was  the  son  of  Labotas,  who  was  the 
son  of  Echestratus,  who  was  the  son  of 
Agis,  who  was  the  son  of  Eurysthenes,  who 
was  the  son  of  Aristod£mus,  who  was  the 
son  of  Aristomachus,  who  was  the  son  of 
Cleodasus,  who  was  the  son  of  Hyllus,  who 
was  the  son  of  Hercules. 

Leonidas  had  come  to  be  king  of  Sparta 
quite  unexpectedly. 

Having  two  elder  brothers,  Cleomenes 
and  Dorieus,  he  had  no  thought  of  ever 
mounting  the  throne.  However,  when 
Cleomenes  died  without  male  offspring, 
as  Dorieus  was  likewise  deceased,  having 
perished  in  Sicily,  the  crown  fell  to  Leoni- 
das, who  was  older  than  Cleombrotus, 
the  youngest  of  the  sons  of  Anaxandridas, 
and,  moreover,  was  manied  to  the  daugh- 


226 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ter  of  Cleomcnes.  He  had  now  come  to 
Thermopylae,  accompanied  by  the  three 
hundred  men  which  the  law  assigned  him, 
whom  he  had  himself  chosen  from  among 
the  citizens,  and  who  were  all  of  them 
fathers  with  sons  living.  On  his  way  he 
had  taken  the  troops  from  Thebes,  whose 
number  I  have  already  mentioned,  and 
who  were  under  the  command  of  Leontia- 
des  the  son  of  Eurymachus.  The  reason 
why  he  made  a  point  of  taking  troops 
from  Thebes,  and  Thebes  only,  was,  that 
the  Thebans  were  strongly  suspected  of 
being  well  inclined  to  the  Medes.  Leoni- 
das  therefore  called  on  them  to  come  with 
him  to  the  war,  wishing  to  see  whether 
they  would  comply  with  his  demand, 
or  openly  refuse,  and  disclaim  the  Greek 
alliance.  They,  however,  though  their 
wishes  leant  the  other  way,  nevertheless 
sent  the  men. 

The  force  with  Leonidas  was  sent  for- 
ward by  the  Spartans  in  advance  of  their 
main  body,  that  the  sight  of  them  might 
encourage  the  allies  to  fight,  and  hinder 
them  from  going  over  to  the  Medes,  as 
it  was  likely  they  might  have  done  had 
they  seen  that  Sparta  was  backward. 
They  intended  presently,  when  they  had 
celebrated  the  Carneian  festival,  which 
was  what  now  kept  them  at  home,  to 
leave  a  garrison  in  Sparta,  and  hasten  in 
full  force  to  join  the  army.  The  rest  of 
the  allies  also  intended  to  act  similarly; 
for  it  happened  that  the  Olympic  festival 
fell  exactly  at  this  same  period.  None 
of  them  looked  to  see  the  contest  at  Ther- 
mopylae decided  so  speedily;  wherefore 
they  were  content  to  send  forward  a  mere 
advanced  guard.  Such  accordingly  were 
the  intentions  of  the  allies. 

The  Greek  forces  at  Thermopylae,  when 
the  Persian  army  drew  near  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  pass,  were  seized  with  fear; 
and  a  council  was  held  to  consider  about 
a  retreat.  It  was  the  wish  of  the  Pelo- 
ponnesians  generally  that  the  army  should 
fall  back  upon  the  Peloponnese,  and  there 
guard  the  Isthmus.  But  Leonidas,  who 
saw  with  what  indignation  the  Phocians 
and  Locrians  heard  of  this  plan,  gave  his 
voice  for  remaining  where  they  were,  while 


they  sent  envoys  to  the  several  cities  to 
ask  for  help,  since  they  were  too  few  to 
make  a  stand  against  an  army  like  that 
of  the  Medes. 

While  this  debate  was  going  on,  Xerxes 
sent  a  mounted  spy  to  observe  the  Greeks, 
and  note  how  many  they  were,  and  see 
what  they  were  doing.  He  had  heard, 
before  he  came  out  of  Thessaly,  that  a  few 
men  were  assembled  at  this  place,  and 
that  at  their  head  were  certain  Lacedae- 
monians, under  Leonidas,  a  descendant 
of  Hercules.  The  horseman  rode  up  to 
the  camp,  and  looked  about  him,  but  did 
not  see  the  whole  army;  for  such  as  were 
on  the  further  side  of  the  wall  (which  had' 
been  rebuilt  and  was  now  carefully 
guarded)  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to 
behold;  but  he  observed  those  on  the  out- 
side, who  were  encamped  in  front  of  the 
rampart.  It  chanced  that  at  this  time 
the  Lacedaemonians  held  the  outer  guard, 
and  were  seen  by  the  spy,  some  of  them 
engaged  in  gymnastic  exercises,  others 
combing  their  long  hair.  At  this  the  spy 
greatly  marvelled,  but  he  counted  their 
number,  and  when  he  had  taken  accurate 
note  of  everything,  he  rode  back  quietly; 
for  no  one  pursued  after  him,  nor  paid 
any  heed  to  his  visit.  So  he  returned, 
and  told  Xerxes  all  that  he  had  seen. 

Upon  this,  Xerxes,  who  had  no  means 
of  surmising  the  truth — namely,  that  the 
Spartans  were  preparing  to  do  or  die 
manfully — but  thought  it  laughable  thaf 
they  should  be  engaged  in  such  employ  - 
ments,  sent  and  called  to  his  presence 
Demaratus  the  son  of  Ariston,  who  still 
remained  with  the  army.  When  he  ap- 
peared, Xerxes  told  him  all  that  he  had 
heard,  and  questioned  him  concerning 
the  news,  since  he  was  anxious  to  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  such  behavior  on 
the  part  of  the  Spartans.  Then  Demara- 
tus said — 

"I  spake  to  thee,  O  king!  concerning 
these  men  long  since,  when  we  had  but 
just  begun  our  march  upon  Greece;  thou, 
however,  didst  only  laugh  at  my  words, 
when  I  told  thee  of  all  this,  which  I  saw 
would  come  to  pass.  Earnestly  ao  I  strug- 
gle at  all  times  to  speak  truth  to  thee, 


HISTORY 


227 


sire;  and  now  listen  to  it  once  more. 
These  men  have  come  to  dispute  the  pass 
with  us;  and  it  is  for  this  that  they  are 
now  making  ready.  'Tis  their  custom, 
when  they  are  about  to  hazard  their  lives, 
to  adorn  their  heads  with  care.  Be  as- 
sured, however,  that  if  thou  canst  subdue 
the  men  who  are  here  and  the  Lacedae- 
monians who  remain  in  Sparta,  there  is  no 
other  nation  in  all  the  world  which  will 
venture  to  lift  a  hand  in  their  defence. 
Thou  hast  now  to  deal  with  the  first 
kingdom  and  town  in  Greece,  and  with 
the  bravest  men." 

Then  Xerxes,  to  whom  what  Demaratus 
said  seemed  altogether  to  surpass  belief, 
asked  further,  "How  it  was  possible  for  so 
small  an  army  to  contend  with  his?  " 

"O  king!"  Demaratus  answered,  "let 
me  be  treated  as  a  liar,  if  matters  fall  not 
out  as  I  say." 

But  Xerxes  was  not  persuaded  any  the 
more.  Four  whole  days  he  suffered  to 
go  by,  expecting  that  the  Greeks  would 
run  away.  When,  however,  he  found 
on  the  fifth  that  they  were  not  gone, 
thinking  that  their  firm  stand  was  mere 
impudence  and  recklessness,  he  grew 
wroth,  and  sent  against  them  the  Medes 
and  Cissians,  with  orders  to  take  them 
alive  and  bring  them  into  his  presence. 
Then  the  Medes  rushed  forward  and 
charged  the  Greeks,  but  fell  in  vast  num- 
bers: others  however  took  the  places  of 
the  slain,  and  would  not  be  beaten  off, 
though  they  suffered  terrible  losses.  In 
this  way  it  became  clear  to  all,  and  es- 
pecially to  the  king,  that  though  he  had 
plenty  of  combatants,  he  had  but  very  few 
warriors.  The  struggle,  however,  con- 
tinued during  the  whole  day. 

Then  the  Medes,  having  met  so  rough 
a  reception,  withdrew  from  the  fight; 
and  their  place  was  taken  by  the  band  of 
Persians  under  Hydarnes,  whom  the  king 
called  his  "Immortals:"  they,  it  was 
thought,  would  soon  finish  the  business. 
But  when  they  joined  battle  with  the 
Greeks,  't  was  with  no  better  success  than 
the  Median  detachment — things  went 
much  as  before — the  two  armies  fighting 
in  a  narrow  space,  and  the  barbarians 


using  shorter  spears  than  the  Greeks,  and 
having  no  advantage  from  their  numbers. 
The  Lacedaemonians  fought  in  a  way 
worthy  of  note  and  showed  themselves 
far  more  skilful  in  fight  than  their  adver- 
saries, often  turning  their  backs,  and  mak- 
ing as  though  they  were  all  flying  away, 
on  which  the  barbarians  would  rush  after 
them  with  much  noise  and  shouting, 
when  the  Spartans  at  their  approach  would 
wheel  round  and  face  their  pursuers,  in 
this  way  destroying  vast  numbers  of  the 
enemy.  Some  Spartans  likewise  fell  in 
these  encounters,  but  only  a  very  few. 
At  last  the  Persians,  rinding  that  all  their 
efforts  to  gam  the  pass  availed  nothing, 
and  that,  whether  they  attacked  by  divi- 
sions or  in  any  other  way,  it  was  to  no 
purpose,  withdrew  to  their  own  quarters. 

During  these  assaults,  it  is  said  that 
Xerxes,  who  was  watching  the  battle, 
thrice  leaped  from  the  throne  on  which  he 
sate,  in  terror  for  his  army. 

Next  day  the  combat  was  renewed,  but 
with  no  better  success  on  the  part  of  the 
barbarians.  The  Greeks  were  so  few  that 
the  barbarians  hoped  to  find  them  dis- 
abled, by  reason  of  their  wounds,  from 
offering  any  further  resistance;  and  so 
they  once  more  attacked  them.  But  the 
Greeks  were  drawn  up  in  detachments 
according  to  their  cities,  and  bore  the 
brunt  of  the  battle  in  turns, — all  except 
the  Phocians,  who  had  been  stationed  on 
the  mountain  to  guard  the  pathway. 
So,  when  the  Persians  found  no  difference 
between  that  day  and  the  preceding,  they 
again  retired  to  their  quarters. 

Now,  as  the  king  was  in  a  great  strait, 
and  knew  not  how  he  should  deal  with 
the  emergency,  Ephialtes,  the  son  of 
Eurydemus,  a  man  of  Malis,  came  to  him 
and  was  admitted  to  a  conference.  Stirred 
by  the  hope  of  receiving  a  rich  reward  at 
the  king's  hands,  he  had  come  to  tell 
him  of  the  pathway  which  led  across  the 
mountain  to  Thermopylae;  by  which  dis- 
closure he  brought  destruction  on  the 
band  of  Greeks  who  had  there  withstood 
the  barbarians.  This  Ephialtes  after- 
wards, from  fear  of  the  Lacedaemonians, 
fled  into  Thessaly;  and  during  his  exile,  in 


228 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


an  assembly  of  the  Amphictyons  held  at 
Pylae,  a  price  was  set  upon  his  head  by 
the  Pylagorae.  When  some  time  had  gone 
by,  he  returned  from  exile,  and  went  to 
Anticyra,  where  he  was  slain  by  Athena- 
des,  a  native  of  Trachis.  Athfinades  did 
not  slay  him  for  his  treachery,  but  for 
another  reason,  which  I  shall  mention  in 
a  latter  part  of  my  history:  yet  still  the 
Lacedaemonians  honored  him  none  the  less. 
Thus  then  did  Ephialtes  perish  a  long  time 
afterwards. 

Besides  this  there  is  another  story  told, 
which  I  do  not  at  all  believe — to  wit, 
that  OnStas  the  son  of  Phanagoras,  a 
native  of  Carystus,  and  Corydallus,  a 
man  of  Anticyra,  were  the  persons  who 
spoke  on  this  matter  to  the  king,  and  took 
the  Persians  across  the  mountain.  One 
may  guess  which  story  is  true,  from  the 
fact  that  the  deputies  of  the  Greeks,  the 
Pylagorae,  who  must  have  had  the  best 
means  of  ascertaining  the  truth,  did  not 
offer  the  reward  for  the  heads  of  OnStas 
and  Corydallus,  but  for  that  of  Ephialtes 
of  Trachis;  and  again  from  the  flight  of 
Ephialtes,  which  we  know  to  have  been 
on  this  account.  Ongtas,  I  allow,  although 
he  was  not  a  Malian,  might  have  been 
acquainted  with  the  path,  if  he  had  lived 
much  in  that  part  of  the  country;  but  as 
Ephialtes  was  the  person  who  actually 
led  the  Persians  round  the  mountain  by 
the  pathway,  I  leave  his  name  on  record 
as  that  of  the  man  who  did  the  deed. 

Great  was  the  joy  of  Xerxes  on  this 
occasion;  and  as  he  approved  highly  of 
the  enterprise  which  Ephialtes  undertook 
to  accomplish,  he  forthwith  sent  upon  the 
errand  Hydarnes,  and  the  Persians  under 
him.  The  troops  left  the  camp  about  the 
time  of  the  lighting  of  the  lamps.  The 
pathway  along  which  they  went  was  first 
discovered  by  the  Malians  of  these  parts, 
who  soon  afterwards  led  the  Thessalians 
by  it  to  attack  the  Phocians,  at  the  tune 
when  the  Phocians  fortified  the  pass  with 
a  wall,  and  so  put  themselves  under  covert 
from  danger.  And  ever  since,  the  path 
has  always  been  put  to  an  ill  use  by  the 
Malians. 

The  course  which  it  takes  is  the  follow- 


ing:— Beginning  at  the  Asopus,  where 
that  stream  flows  through  the  cleft  in  the 
hills,  it  runs  along  the  ridge  of  the  moun- 
tain (which  is  called,  like  the  pathway 
over  it,  Anopaea),  and  ends  at  the  city  of 
Alp£nus — the  first  Locrian  town  as  you 
come  from  Malis — by  the  stone  called 
Melampygus  and  the  seats  of  the  Cerco- 
pians.  Here  it  is  as  narrow  as  at  any 
other  point. 

The  Persians  took  this  path,  and,  cross- 
ing the  Asopus,  continued  their  march 
through  the  whole  of  the  night,  having 
the  mountains  of  (Eta  on  their  right  hand, 
and  on  their  left  those  of  Trachis.  At 
dawn  of  day  they  found  themselves  close 
to  the  summit.  Now  the  hill  was  guarded, 
as  I  have  already  said,  by  a  thousand 
Phocian  men-at-arms,  who  were  placed 
there  to  defend  the  pathway,  and  at  the 
same  tune  to  secure  their  own  country. 
They  had  been  given  the  guard  of  the 
mountain  path,  while  the  other  Greeks 
defended  the  pass  below,  because  they  had 
volunteered  for  the  service,  and  had 
pledged  themselves  to  Leonidas  to  main- 
tain the  post. 

The  ascent  of  the  Persians  became 
known  to  the  Phocians  in  the  following 
manner: — During  all  the  time  that  they 
were  making  their  way  up,  the  Greeks 
remained  unconscious  of  it,  inasmuch 
as  the  whole  mountain  was  covered  with 
groves  of  oak;  but  it  happened  that  the 
air  was  very  still,  and  the  leaves  which 
the  Persians  stirred  with  their  feet  made, 
as  it  was  likely  they  would,  a  loud  rustling, 
whereupon  the  Phocians  jumped  up  and 
flew  to  seize  their  arms.  In  a  moment  the 
barbarians  came  in  sight,  and,  perceiving 
men  arming  themselves,  were  greatly 
amazed;  for  they  had  fallen  in  with  an 
enemy  when  they  expected  no  opposition. 
Hydarnes,  alarmed  at  the  sight,  and  fear- 
ing lest  the  Phocians  might  be  Lacedae- 
monians, inquired  of  Ephialtes  to  what 
nation  these  troops  belonged.  Ephialtes 
told  him  the  exact  truth,  whereupon  he 
arrayed  his  Persians  for  battle.  The 
Phocians,  galled  by  the  showers  of  arrows 
to  which  they  were  exposed,  and  imagining 
themselves  the  special  object  of  the  Per- 


HISTORY 


229 


sian  attack,  fled  hastily  to  the  crest  of 
the  mountain,  and  there  made  ready  to 
meet  death;  but  while  their  mistake  con- 
tinued, the  Persians,  with  Ephialtes  and 
Hydarnes,  not  thinking  it  worth  their 
while  to  delay  on  account  of  Phocians, 
passed  on  and  descended  the  mountain 
with  all  possible  speed. 

The  Greeks  at  Thermopylae  received 
the  first  warning  of  the  destruction  which 
the  dawn  would  bring  on  them  from  the 
seer  Megistias,  who  read  their  fate  in  the 
victims  as  he  was  sacrificing.  After  this 
deserters  came  in,  and  brought  the  news 
that  the  Persians  were  marching  round 
by  the  hills:  it  was  still  night  when 
these  men  arrived.  Last  of  all,  the  scouts 
came  running  down  from  the  heights, 
and  brought  in  the  same  accounts,  when 
the  day  was  just  beginning  to  break. 
Then  the  Greeks  held  a  council  to  con- 
sider what  they  should  do,  and  here  opin- 
ions were  divided:  some  were  strong 
against  quitting  their  post,  while  others 
contended  to  the  contrary.  So  when  the 
council  had  broken  up,  part  of  the  troops 
departed  and  went  their  ways  homeward 
to  their  several  states;  part  however  re- 
solved to  remain,  and  to  stand  by  Leonidas 
to  the  last. 

It  is  said  that  Leonidas  himself  sent 
away  the  troops  who  departed,  because 
ie  tendered  their  safety,  but  thought  it 
unseemly  that  either  he  or  his  Spartans 
should  quit  the  post  which  they  had  been 
especially  sent  to  guard.  For  my  own 
part,  I  incline  to  think  that  Leonidas  gave 
the  order,  because  he  perceived  the  allies 
to  be  out  of  heart  and  unwilling  to  encoun- 
ter the  danger  to  which  his  own  mind  was 
made  up.  He  therefore  commanded  them 
to  retreat,  but  said  that  he  himself  could 
not  draw  back  with  honor;  knowing  that, 
if  he  stayed,  glory  awaited  him,  and  that 
Sparta  in  that  case  would  not  lose  her 
prosperity.  For  when  the  Spartans,  at 
the  very  beginning  of  the  war,  sent  to 
consult  the  oracle  concerning  it,  the  answer 
which  they  received  from  the  Pythoness 
was,  "that  either  Sparta  must  be  over- 
thrown by  the  barbarians,  or  one  of  her 
kings  must  perish."  The  prophecy  was 


delivered  in  hexameter  verse,  and  ran 
thus:— 

"O  ye  men  who  dwell  in  the  streets  of  broad 

Lacedaemon! 
Either  your  glorious  town  shall  be  sacked  by  the 

children  of  Perseus, 
Or,  in  exchange,  must  all  through  the  whole 

Laconian  country 
Mourn  for  the  loss  of  a  king,  descendant  of  great 

Heracles. 
He  cannot  be  withstood  by  the  courage  of  bulls 

nor  of  lions, 
Strive  as  they  may;  he  is  mighty  as  Jove-  there 

is  nought  that  shall  stay  him, 
Till  he  have  got  for  his  prey  your  king,  or  your 

glorious  city." 

The  remembrance  of  this  answer,  I  think, 
and  the  wish  to  secure  the  whole  glory  for 
the  Spartans,  caused  Leonidas  to  send  the 
allies  away.  This  is  more  likely  than  that 
they  quarrelled  with  him,  and  took  their 
departure  in  such  unruly  fashion. 

To  me  it  seems  no  small  argument  hi 
favor  of  this  view,  that  the  seer  also  who 
accompanied  the  army,  Megistias,  the 
Acarnanian, — said  to  have  been  of  the 
blood  of  Melampus,  and  the  same  who 
was  led  by  the  appearance  of  the  victims 
to  warn  the  Greeks  of  the  danger  which 
threatened  them, — received  orders  to  re- 
tire (as  it  is  certain  he  did)  from  Leonidas, 
that  he  might  escape  the  coming  destruc- 
tion. Megistias,  however,  though  bidden 
to  depart,  refused,  and  stayed  with  the 
army;  but  he  had  an  only  son  present 
with  the  expedition,  whom  he  now  sent 
away. 

So  the  allies,  when  Leonidas  ordered 
them  to  retire,  obeyed  him  and  forthwith 
departed.  Only  the  Thespians  and  the 
Thebans  remained  with  the  Spartans; 
and  of  these  the  Thebans  were  kept 
back  by  Leonidas  as  hostages,  very  much 
against  their  will.  The  Thespians,  on  the 
contrary,  stayed  entirely  of  their  own  ac- 
cord, refusing  to  retreat,  and  declaring 
that  they  would  not  forsake  Leonidas  and 
his  followers.  So  they  abode  v/ith  the 
Spartans,  and  died  with  them.  Their 
leader  was  Demophilus,  the  son  of  Dia- 
dromes. 

At  sunrise  Xerxes  made  libations,  after 
which  he  waited  until  the  time  when  the 


230 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


forum  is  wont  to  fill,  and  then  began  his 
advance.  Ephialtes  had  instructed  him 
thus,  as  the  descent  of  the  mountain  is 
much  quicker,  and  the  distance  much 
shorter,  than  tie  way  round  the  hills,  and 
the  ascent.  So  the  barbarians  under 
Xerxes  began  to  draw  nigh;  and  the  Greeks 
under  Leonidas,  as  they  now  went  forth 
determined  to  die,  advanced  much  further 
than  on  previous  days,  until  they  reached 
the  more  open  portion  of  the  pass.  Hither- 
to they  had  held  their  station  within  the 
wall,  and  from  this  had  gone  forth  to  fight 
at  the  point  where  the  pass  was  the  nar- 
rowest. Now  they  joined  battle  beyond 
the  defile,  and  carried  slaughter  among  the 
barbarians,  who  fell  hi  heaps.  Behind 
them  the  captains  of  the  squadrons, 
armed  with  whips,  urged  their  men  for- 
ward with  continual  blows.  Many  were 
thrust  into  the  sea,  and  there  perished;  a 
still  greater  number  were  trampled  to 
death  by  their  own  soldiers;  no  one  heeded 
the  dying.  For  the  Greeks,  reckless  of 
their  own  safety  and  desperate,  since  they 
knew  that,  as  the  mountain  had  been 
crossed,  their  destruction  was  nigh  at 
hand,  exerted  themselves  with  the  most 
furious  valor  against  the  barbarians. 

By  this  time  the  spears  of  the  greater 
number  were  all  shivered,  and  with  their 
swords  they  hewed  down  the  ranks  of 
the  Persians;  and  here,  as  they  strove, 
Leonidas  fell  fighting  bravely,  together 
with  many  other  famous  Spartans,  whose 
names  I  have  taken  care  to  learn  on  ac- 
count of  their  great  worthiness,  as  indeed 
I  have  those  of  all  the  three  hundred. 
There  fell  too  at  the  same  time  very  many 
famous  Persians:  among  them,  two  sons 
of  Darius,  Abrocomes  and  Hyperanthes, 
his  children  by  Phratagune,  the  daughter 
of  Artanes.  Artanes  was  brother  of 
King  Darius,  being  a  son  of  Hystaspes, 
the  son  of  Arsames;  and  when  he  gave  his 
daughter  to  the  king,  he  made  him  heir 
likewise  of  all  his  substance;  for  she  was 
his  only  child. 

Thus  two  brothers  of  Xerxes  here  fought 
and  fell.  And  now  there  arose  a  fierce 
struggle  between  the  Persians  and  the 
Lacedaemonians  over  the  body  of  Leonidas, 


in  which  the  Greeks  four  times  drove  back 
the  enemy,  and  at  last  by  their  great  brav- 
ery succeeded  in  bearing  off  the  body. 
This  combat  was  scarcely  ended  when  the 
Persians  with  Ephialtes  approached;  and 
the  Greeks,  informed  that  they  drew  nigh, 
made  a  change  in  the  manner  of  their 
fighting.  Drawing  back  into  the  narrow- 
est part  of  the  pass,  and  retreating  even 
behind  the  cross  wall,  they  posted  them- 
selves upon  a  hillock,  where  they  stood  all 
drawn  up  together  in  one  close  body, 
except  only  the  Thebans.  The  hillock 
whereof  I  speak  is  at  the  entrance  of  the 
straits,  where  the  stone  lion  stands  which 
was  set  up  in  honor  of  Leonidas.  Here 
they  defended  themselves  to  the  last,  such 
as  still  had  swords  using  them,  and  the 
others  resisting  with  their  hands  and  teeth; 
till  the  barbarians,  who  in  part  had  pulled 
down  the  wall  and  attacked  them  hi  front, 
in  part  had  gone  round  and  now  encircled 
them  upon  every  side,  overwhelmed  and 
buried  the  remnant  which  was  left  beneath 
showers  of  missile  weapons. 

Thus  nobly  did  the  whole  body  of  Lace- 
daemonians and  Thespians  behave;  but 
nevertheless  one  man  is  said  to  have  dis- 
tinguished himself  above  all  the  rest,  to 
wit,  Di£neces  the  Spartan.  A  speech 
which  he  made  before  the  Greeks  engaged 
the  Medes,  remains  on  record.  One  of 
the  Trachinians  told  him,  "Such  was  the 
number  of  the  barbarians,  that  when  they 
shot  forth  their  arrows  the  sun  would  be 
darkened  by  their  multitude."  Di£neces, 
not  at  all  frightened  at  these  words,  but 
making  light  of  the  Median  numbers,  an- 
swered, "Our  Trachinian  friend  brings  us 
excellent  tidings.  If  the  Medes  darken 
the  sun,  we  shall  have  our  fight  in  the 
shade. ' '  Other  sayings  too  of  a  like  nature 
are  reported  to  have  been  left  on  record  by 
this  same  person. 

BATTLE  OF  SALAMIS 

WHEN  the  captains  from  these  various 
nations  were  come  together  at  Salamis,  & 
council  of  war  was  summoned;  and  Eury- 
biades  proposed  that  any  one  who  liked 
to  advise,  should  say  which  place  seemed 


HISTORY 


231 


to  him  the  fittest,  among  those  still  in 
the  possession  of  the  Greeks,  to  be  the 
scene  of  a  naval  combat.  Attica,  he  said, 
was  not  to  be  thought  of  now;  but  he 
desired  their  counsel  as  to  the  remainder. 
The  speakers  mostly  advised  that  the 
fleet  should  sail  away  to  the  Isthmus,  and 
there  give  battle  in  defence  of  the  Pelopon- 
nese;  and  they  urged  as  a  reason  for  this, 
that  if  they  were  worsted  in  a  sea-fight 
at  Salamis,  they  would  be  shut  up  in  an 
island  where  they  could  get  no  help;  but 
if  they  were  beaten  near  the  Isthmus, 
they  could  escape  to  their  homes. 

As  the  captains  from  the  Peloponnese 
were  thus  advising,  there  came  an  Athe- 
nian to  the  camp,  who  brought  word  that 
the  barbarians  had  entered  Attica,  and 
were  ravaging  and  burning  everything. 
For  the  division  of  the  army  under  Xerxes 
was  just  arrived  at  Athens  from  its  march 
through  Bceotia,  where  it  had  burnt 
Thespiae  and  Platsea — both  which  cities 
were  forsaken  by  their  inhabitants,  who 
had  fled  to  the  Peloponnese — and  now  it 
was  laying  waste  all  the  possessions  of 
the  Athenians.  Thespiae  and  Plataea  had 
been  burnt  by  the  Persians,  because  they 
knew  from  the  Thebans  that  neither  of 
those  cities  had  espoused  their  side. 

Since  the  passage  of  the  Hellespont 
and  the  commencement  of  the  march 
upon  Greece,  a  space  of  four  months  had 
gone  by;  one,  while  the  army  made  the 
crossing,  and  delayed  about  the  region  of 
the  Hellespont;  and  three  while  they  pro- 
ceeded thence  to  Attica,  which  they  en- 
tered in  the  archonship  of  Calliades. 
They  found  the  city  forsaken;  a  few  people 
only  remained  in  the  temple,  either  keepers 
of  the  treasures,  or  men  of  the  poorer  sort. 
These  persons  having  fortified  the  citadel 
with  planks  and  boards,  held  out  against 
the  enemy.  It  was  in  some  measure  their 
poverty  which  had  prevented  them  from 
seeking  shelter  in  Salamis;  but  there  was 
likewise  another  reason  which  in  part 
induced  them  to  remain.  They  imagined 
themselves  to  have  discovered  the  true 
meaning  of  the  oracle  uttered  by  the 
Pythoness,  which  promised  that  "the 
wooden  wall"  should  never  be  taken — 


the  wooden  wall,  they  thought,  did  not 
mean  the  ships,  but  the  place  where  they 
had  taken  refuge. 

The  Persians  encamped  upon  the  hill 
over  against  the  citadel,  which  is  called 
Mars'  hill  by  the  Athenians,  and  began 
the  siege  of  the  place,  attacking  the  Greeks 
with  arrows  whereto  pieces  of  lighted  tow 
were  attached,  which  they  shot  at  the 
barricade.  And  now  those  who  were 
within  the  citadel  found  themselves  in  a 
most  woeful  case;  for  their  wooden  ram- 
part betrayed  them;  still,  however,  they 
continued  to  resist.  It  was  in  vain  that 
the  Pisistratidae  came  to  them  and  offered 
terms  of  surrender — they  stoutly  refused 
all  parley,  and  among  their  other  modes  of 
defence,  rolled  down  huge  masses  of  stone 
upon  the  barbarians  as  they  were  mount- 
ing up  to  the  gates:  so  that  Xerxes  was 
for  a  long  time  very  greatly  perplexed,  and 
could  not  contrive  any  way  to  take  them. 

At  last,  however,  in  the  midst  of  these 
many  difficulties,  the  barbarians  made 
discovery  of  an  access.  For  verily  the 
oracle  had  spoken  truth;  and  it  was  fated 
that  the  whole  mainland  of  Attica  shpuld 
fall  beneath  the  sway  of  the  Persians. 
Right  in  front  of  the  citadel,  but  behind 
the  gates  and  the  common  ascent — where 
no  watch  was  kept,  and  no  one  would 
have  thought  it  possible  that  any  foot  of 
man  could  climb — a  few  soldiers  mounted 
from  the  sanctuary  of  Aglaurus,  Cecrops' 
daughter,  notwithstanding  the  steepness 
of  the  precipice.  As  soon  as  the  Athenians 
saw  them  upon  the  summit,  some  threw 
themselves  headlong  from  the  wall,  and 
so  perished;  while  others  fled  for  refuge 
to  the  inner  part  of  the  temple.  The  Per- 
sians rushed  to  the  gates  and  opened  them, 
after  which  they  massacred  the  suppliants. 
When  all  were  slain,  they  plundered  the 
temple,  and  fired  every  part  of  the  citadel. 

Xerxes,  thus  completely  master  of 
Athens,  despatched  a  horseman  to  Susa, 
with  a  message  to  Artabanus,  informing 
him  of  his  success  hitherto.  The  day 
after,  he  collected  together  all  the  Athenian 
exiles  who  had  come  into  Greece  in  his 
train,  and  bade  them  go  up  into  the  citadel, 
and  there  offer  sacrifice  after  their  own 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


fashion.  I  know  not  whether  he  had  had 
a  dream  which  made  him  give  this  order, 
or  whether  he  felt  some  remorse  on  account 
of  having  set  the  temple  on  fire.  However 
this  may  have  been,  the  exiles  were  not 
slow  to  obey  the  command  given  them. 

I  will  now  explain  why  I  have  made 
mention  of  this  circumstance:  there  is  a 
temple  of  Erechtheus  the  Earth-born, 
as  he  is  called,  in  this  citadel,  containing 
within  it  an  olive-tree  and  a  sea.  The 
tale  goes  among  the  Athenians,  that  they 
were  placed  there  as  witnesses  by  Neptune 
and  Minerva,  when  they  had  their  con- 
tention about  the  country.  Now  this 
olive-tree  had  been  burnt  with  the  rest  of 
the  temple  when  the  barbarians  took  the 
place.  But  when  the  Athenians,  whom 
1  the  king  had  commanded  to  offer  sacrifice, 
I  went  up  into  the  temple  for  the  purpose, 
they  found  a  fresh  shoot,  as  much  as  a 
cubit  hi  length,  thrown  out  from  the  old 
trunk.  Such  at  least  was  the  account 
which  these  persons  gave. 

Meanwhile,  at  Salamis,  the  Greeks  no 
sooner  heard  what  had  befallen  the  Athe- 
nian citadel,  than  they  fell  into  such  alarm 
that  some  of  the  captains  did  not  even  wait 
for  the  council  to  come  to  a  vote,  but  em- 
barked hastily  on  board  their  vessels,  and 
hoisted  sail  as  though  they  would  take  to 
flight  immediately.  The  rest,  who  stayed 
at  the  council  board,  came  to  a  vote  that 
the  fleet  should  give  battle  at  the  Isthmus. 
Night  now  drew  on;  and  the  captains, 
dispersing  from  the  meeting,  proceeded 
on  board  their  respective  ships. 

Themistocles,  as  he  entered  his  own 
vessel,  was  met  by  Mnesiphilus,  an  Athe- 
nian, who  asked  him  what  the  council  had 
resolved  to  do.  On  learning  that  the  re- 
solve was  to  stand  away  for  the  Isthmus, 
and  there  give  battle  on  behalf  of  the 
Peloponnese,  Mnesiphilus  exclaimed — 

"If  these  men  sail  away  from  Salamis, 
thou  wilt  have  no  fight  at  all  for  the  one 
fatherland;  for  they  will  all  scatter  them- 
selves to  their  own  homes;  and  neither 
Eurybiades  nor  any  one  else  will  be  able 
to  hinder  them,  nor  to  stop  the  breaking 
up  of  the  armament.  Thus  will  Greece 
be  brought  to  ruin  through  evil  counsels. 


But  haste  thee  now;  and,  if  there  be  any 
possible  way,  seek  to  unsettle  these  re- 
solves— mayhap  thou  mightest  persuade 
Eurybiades  to  change  his  mind,  and  con- 
tinue here." 

The  suggestion  greatly  pleased  Themis- 
tocles; and  without  answering  a  word,  he 
went  straight  to  the  vessel  of  Eurybiades. 
Arrived  there,  he  let  him  know  that  he 
wanted  to  speak  with  him  on  a  matter 
touching  the  public  service.  So  Eurybia- 
des bade  him  come  on  board,  and  say 
whatever  he  wished.  Then  Themistocles, 
seating  himself  at  his  side,  went  over  all 
the  arguments  which  he  had  heard  from 
Mnesiphilus,  pretending  as  if  they  were 
his  own,  and  added  to  them  many  new 
ones  besides;  until  at  last  he  persuaded 
Eurybiades,  by  his  importunity,  to  quit 
his  ship  and  again  collect  the  captains  to 
council. 

As  soon  as  they  were  come,  and  before 
Eurybiades  had  opened  to  them  his  pur- 
pose in  assembling  them  together,  Themis- 
tocles, as  men  are  wont  to  do  when  they 
are  very  anxious,  spoke  much  to  divers  of 
them;  whereupon  the  Corinthian  cap  tarn, 
Adeimantus,  the  son  of  Ocytus,  observed — 
"Themistocles,  at  the  games  they  who 
start  too  soon  are  scourged."  "True," 
rejoined  the  other  in  his  excuse,  "but  they 
who  wait  too  late  are  not  crowned." 

Thus  he  gave  the  Corinthian  at  this 
time  a  mild  answer;  and  towards  Eury- 
biades himself  he  did  not  now  use  any  of 
those  arguments  which  he  had  urged  be- 
fore, or  say  aught  of  the  allies  betaking 
themselves  to  flight  if  once  they  broke  up 
from  Salamis;  it  would  have  been  ungrace- 
ful for  him,  when  the  confederates  were 
present,  to  make  accusation  against  any: 
but  he  had  recourse  to  quite  a  new  sort  of 
reasoning,  and  addressed  him  as  follows: — 

"With  thee  it  rests,  O  Eurybiades!  to 
save  Greece,  if  thou  wilt  only  hearken 
unto  me,  and  give  the  enemy  battle  here, 
rather  than  yield  to  the  advice  of  those 
among  us,  who  would  have  the  fleet  with- 
drawn to  the  Isthmus.  Hear  now,  I 
beseech  thee,  and  judge  between  the  two 
courses.  At  the  Isthmus  thou  wilt  fight 
in  an  open  sea,  which  is  greatly  to  our 


HISTORY 


233 


disadvantage,  since  our  ships  are  heavier 
and  fewer  in  number  than  the  enemy's; 
and  further,  thou  wilt  in  any  case  lose 
Salamis,  Megara,  and  Egina,  even  if  all 
the  rest  goes  well  with  us.  The  land  and 
sea  force  of  the  Persians  will  advance 
together;  and  thy  retreat  will  but  draw 
them  towards  the  Peloponnese,  and  so 
bring  all  Greece  into  peril.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  thou  doest  as  I  advise,  these 
are  the  advantages  which  thou  wilt  so 
secure:  in  the  first  place,  as  we  shall  fight 
in  a  narrow  sea  with  few  ships  against 
many,  if  the  war  follows  the  common 
course,  we  shall  gain  a  great  victory;  for 
to  fight  in  a  narrow  space  is  favorable  to 
us — in  an  open  sea,  to  them.  Again, 
Salamis  will  in  this  case  be  preserved, 
where  we  have  placed  our  wives  and  chil- 
dren. Nay,  that  very  point  by  which  ye 
set  most  store,  is  secured  as  much  by  this 
course  as  by  the  other;  for  whether  we 
fight  here  or  at  the  Isthmus,  we  shall 
equally  give  battle  in  defence  of  the 
Peloponnese.  Assuredly  ye  will  not  do 
wisely  to  draw  the  Persians  upon  that 
region.  For  if  things  turn  out  as  I  anti- 
cipate, and  we  beat  them  by  sea,  then  we 
shall  have  kept  your  Isthmus  free  from 
the  barbarians,  and  they  will  have  ad- 
vanced no  further  than  Attica,  but  from 
thence  have  fled  back  in  disorder;  and  we 
shall,  moreover,  have  saved  Megara, 
Egina,  and  Salamis  itself,  where  an  oracle 
has  said  that  we  are  to  overcome  our 
enemies.  When  men  counsel  reasonably, 
reasonable  success  ensues;  but  when  in 
their  counsels  they  reject  reason,  God  does 
not  choose  to  follow  the  wanderings  of 
human  fancies." 

When  Themistocles  had  thus  spoken, 
Adeimantus  the  Corinthian  again  attacked 
him,  and  bade  him  be  silent,  since  he 
was  a  man  without  a  city;  at  the  same 
tune  he  called  on  Eurybiades  not  to  put 
the  question  at  the  instance  of  one  who 
had  no  country,  and  urged  that  Themis- 
tocles should  show  of  what  state  he  was 
envoy,  before  he  gave  his  voice  with  the 
rest.  This  reproach  he  made,  because 
the  city  of  Athens  had  been  taken,  and 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  barbarians. 


Hereupon  Themistocles  spake  many  bitter 
things  against  Adeimantus  and  the  Corin- 
thians generally;  and  for  proof  that  he  had 
a  country,  reminded  the  captains,  that 
with  two  hundred  ships  at  his  command, 
all  fully  manned  for  battle,  he  had  both 
city  and  territory  as  good  as  theirs;  since 
there  was  no  Grecian  state  which  could  re- 
sist his  men  if  they  were  to  make  a  descent. 

After  this  declaration,  he  turned  to 
Eurybiades,  and  addressing  him  with  still 
greater  warmth  and  earnestness — "If  thou 
wilt  stay  here,"  he  said,  "and  behave  like 
a  brave  man,  all  will  be  well — if  not,  thou 
wilt  bring  Greece  to  ruin.  For  the  whole 
fortune  of  the  war  depends  on  our  ships. 
Be  thou  persuaded  by  my  words.  If  not, 
we  will  take  our  families  on  board,  and  go, 
just  as  we  are,  to  Siris,  hi  Italy,  which  is 
ours  from  of  old,  and  which  the  prophecies 
declare  we  are  to  colonize  some  day  or 
other.  You  then,  when  you  have  lost 
allies  like  us,  will  hereafter  call  to  mind 
what  I  have  now  said." 

At  these  words  of  Themistocles,  Eury- 
biades changed  his  determination;  princi- 
pally, as  I  believe,  because  he  feared  that 
if  he  withdrew  the  fleet  to  the  Isthmus, 
the  Athenians  would  sail  away,  and  knew 
that  without  the  Athenians,  the  rest  of 
their  ships  could  be  no  match  for  the  fleet 
of  the  enemy.  He  therefore  decided  to 
remain,  and  give  battle  at  Salamis. 

And  now,  the  different  chiefs,  notwith- 
standing their  skirmish  of  words,  on  learn- 
ing the  decision  of  Eurybiades,  at  once 
made  ready  for  the  fight.  Morning  broke ; 
and,  just  as  the  sun  rose,  the  shock  of  an 
earthquake  was  felt  both  on  shore  and 
at  sea:  whereupon  the  Greeks  resolved  to 
approach  the  gods  with  prayer,  and  like- 
wise to  send  and  invite  the  ^Eacids  to  their 
aid.  And  this  they  did,  with  as  much 
speed  as  they  had  resolved  on  it.  Prayers 
were  offered  to  all  the  gods;  and  Telamon 
and  Ajax  were  invoked  at  once  from  Sala- 
mis, while  a  ship  was  sent  to  Egina  to 
fetch  ^Eacus  himself,  and  the  other  ^acids. 

The  following  is  a  tale  which  was  told 
by  Dioeus,  the  son  of  Theocydes,  an 
Athenian,  who  was  at  this  time  an  exile, 
and  had  gained  a  good  report  among  the 


234 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Medes.  He  declared  that  after  the  army 
of  Xerxes  had,  in  the  absence  of  the  Athe- 
nians, wasted  Attica,  he  chanced  to  be 
with  Demaratus  the  Lacedaemonian  in  the 
Thriasian  plain,  and  that  while  there,  he 
saw  a  cloud  of  dust  advancing  from  Eleu- 
sis,  such  as  a  host  of  thirty  thousand  men 
might  raise.  As  he  and  his  companion 
were  wondering  who  the  men,  from  whom 
the  dust  arose,  could  possibly  be,  a  sound 
of  voices  reached  his  ear,  and  he  thought 
that  he  recognized  the  mystic  hymn  to 
Bacchus.  Now  Demaratus  was  unac- 
quainted with  the  rites  of  Eleusis,  and  so 
he  inquired  of  Dicaeus  what  the  voices 
were  saying.  Dicaeus  made  answer — 
"O  Demaratus!  beyond  a  doubt  some 
mighty  calamity  is  about  to  befall  the 
king's  army!  For  it  is  manifest,  inasmuch 
as  Attica  is  deserted  by  its  inhabitants, 
that  the  sound  which  we  have  heard  is 
an  unearthly  one,  and  is  now  upon  its 
way  from  Eleusis  to  aid  the  Athenians 
and  their  confederates.  If  it  descends 
upon  the  Peloponnese,  danger  will  threaten 
the  king  himself  and  his  land  army — if  it 
moves  towards  the  ships  at  Salamis,  't  will 
go  hard  but  the  king's  fleet  there  suffers 
destruction.  Every  year  the  Athenians 
celebrate  this  feast  to  the  Mother  and  the 
Daughter;  and  all  who  wish,  whether  they 
be  Athenians  or  any  other  Greeks,  are 
initiated.  The  sound  thou  hearest  is  the 
Bacchic  song,  which  is  wont  to  be  sung  at 
that  festival."  "Hush  now,"  rejoined  the 
other;  "and  see  thou  tell  no  man  of  this 
matter.  For  if  thy  words  be  brought  to 
the  king's  ear,  thou  wilt  assuredly  lose 
thy  head  because  of  them;  neither  I  nor 
any  man  living  can  then  save  thee.  Hold 
thy  peace  therefore.  The  gods  will  see 
to  the  king's  army."  Thus  Demaratus 
counselled  him;  and  they  looked,  and  saw 
the  dust,  from  which  the  sound  arose, 
become  a  cloud,  and  the  cloud  rise  up  into 
the  air  and  sail  away  to  Salamis,  making 
for  the  station  of  the  Grecian  fleet.  Then 
they  knew  that  it  was  the  fleet  of  Xerxes 
which  would  suffer  destruction.  Such  was 
the  tale  told  by  Dicaeus  the  son  of  Theo- 
cydes;  and  he  appealed  for  its  truth  to 
Demaratus  and  other  eye-witnesses. 


The  men  belonging  to  the  fleet  of  Xerxes, 
after  they  had  seen  the  Spartan  dead  at 
Thermopylae,  and  crossed  the  channel  from 
Trachis  to  Histiaea,  waited  there  by  the 
space  of  three  days,  and  then  sailing  down 
through  the  Euripus,  in  three  more  came 
to  Phalgrum.  In  my  judgment,  the  Per- 
sian forces  both  by  land  and  sea  when  they 
invaded  Attica  were  not  less  numerous 
than  they  had  been  on  their  arrival  at 
Sepias  and  Thermopylae.  For  against  the 
Persian  loss  in  the  storm  and  at  Thermo- 
pylae, and  again  in  the  sea-fights  off 
Artemisium,  I  set  the  various  nations 
which  had  since  joined  the  king — as  the 
Malians,  the  Dorians,  the  Locrians,  and 
the  Boeotians — each  serving  in  full  force 
in  his  army  except  the  last,  who  did  not 
number  in  their  ranks  either  the  Thes- 
pians or  the  Plataeans;  and  together  with 
these,  the  Carystians,  the  Andrians,  the 
Tenians,  and  the  other  people  of  the  is- 
lands, who  all  fought  on  this  side  except 
the  five  states  already  mentioned.  For  as 
the  Persians  penetrated  further  into 
Greece,  they  were  joined  continually  by 
fresh  nations. 

Reinforced  by  the  contingents  of  all 
these  various  states,  except  Paros,  the 
barbarians  reached  Athens.  As  for  the 
Parians,  they  tarried  at  Cythnus,  waiting 
to  see  how  the  war  would  go.  The  rest 
of  the  sea  forces  came  safe  to  Phalerum; 
where  they  were  visited  by  Xerxes,  who 
had  conceived  a  desire  to  go  aboard  and 
learn  the  wishes  of  the  fleet.  So  he  came 
and  sate  in  a  seat  of  honor;  and  the  sov- 
ereigns of  the  nations,  and  the  captains 
of  the  ships,  were  sent  for,  to  appear  before 
hmi,  and  as  they  arrived  took  their  seats 
according  to  the  rank  assigned  them  by 
the  king.  In  the  first  seat  sate  the  king 
of  Sidon;  after  him,  the  king  of  Tyre;  then 
the  rest  in  their  order.  When  the  whole 
had  taken  their  places,  one  after  another, 
and  were  set  down  in  orderly  array, 
Xerxes,  to  try  them,  sent  Mardonius  and 
questioned  each,  whether  a  sea-fight  should 
be  risked  or  no. 

Mardonius  accordingly  went  round  the 
entire  assemblage,  beginning  with  the 
Sidonian  monarch,  aiad  asked  this  ques- 


HISTORY 


235 


tion;  to  which  all  gave  the  same  answer, 
advising  to  engage  the  Greeks,  except  only 
Artemisia,  who  spake  as  follows: — 

"  Say  to  the  king,  Mardonius,  that  these 
are  my  words  to  him:  I  was  not  the  least 
brave  of  those  who  fought  at  Euboea, 
nor  were  my  achievements  there  among 
the  meanest;  it  is  my  right,  therefore,  O 
my  lord,  to  tell  thee  plainly  what  I  think 
to  be  most  for  thy  advantage  now.  This 
then  is  my  advice.  Spare  thy  ships,  and 
do  not  risk  a  battle;  for  these  people  are 
as  much  superior  to  thy  people  in  seaman- 
ship, as  men  to  women.  Y.liat  so  great 
need  is  there  for  thee  to  incur  hazard 
at  sea?  Art  thou  not  master  of  Athens, 
for  which  thou  didst  undertake  thy  ex- 
pedition? Is  not  Greece  subject  to  thee? 
Not  a  soul  now  resists  thy  advance.  They 
who  once  resisted,  were  handled  even  as 
they  deserved.  Now  learn  how  I  ex- 
pect that  affairs  will  go  with  thy  ad- 
versaries. If  thou  art  not  over-hasty  to 
engage  with  them  by  sea,  but  wilt  keep 
thy  fleet  near  the  land,  then  whether  thou 
abidest  as  thou  art,  or  marchest  forward 
towards  the  Peloponnese,  thou  wilt  easily 
accomplish  all  for  which  thou  art  come 
hither.  The  Greeks  cannot  hold  out 
against  thee  very  long;  thou  wilt  soon  part 
them  asunder,  and  scatter  them  to  their 
several  homes.  In  the  island  where  they 
lie,  I  hear  they  have  no  food  in  store;  nor 
is  it  likely,  if  thy  land  force  begins  its 
march  towards  the  Peloponnese,  that  they 
will  remain  quietly  where  they  are — at 
least  such  as  come  from  that  region. 
Of  a  surety  they  will  not  greatly  trouble 
themselves  to  give  battle  on  behalf  of  the 
Athenians.  On  the  other  hand,  if  thou 
art  hasty  to  fight,  I  tremble  lest  the  de- 
feat of  thy  sea  force  bring  harm  like- 
wise to  thy  land  army.  This,  too, 
thou  shouldst  remember,  O  king;  good 
masters  are  apt  to  have  bad  servants, 
and  bad  masters  good  ones.  Now,  as 
thou  art  the  best  of  men,  thy  servants 
must  needs  be  a  sorry  set.  These  Egyp- 
tians, Cyprians,  Cilicians,  and  Pamphy- 
lians,  who  are  counted  in  the  number  of 
thy  subject-allies,  of  how  little  service  are 
they  to  thee!" 


As  Artemisia  spake,  they  who  wished 
her  well  were  greatly  troubled  concerning 
her  words,  thinking  that  she  would  suffer 
some  hurt  at  the  king's  hands,  because 
she  exhorted  him  not  to  risk  a  battle; 
they,  on  the  other  hand,  who  disliked  and 
envied  her,  favored  as  she  was  by  the  king 
above  all  the  rest  of  the  allies,  rejoiced  at 
her  declaration,  expecting  that  her  life 
would  be  the  forfeit.  But  Xerxes,  when 
the  words  of  the  several  speakers  were  re- 
ported to  him,  was  pleased  beyond  all 
others  with  the  reply  of  Artemisia;  and 
whereas,  even  before  this,  he  had  always 
esteemed  her  much,  he  now  praised  her 
more  than  ever.  Nevertheless,  he  gave 
orders  that  the  advice  of  the  greater  num- 
ber should  be  followed;  for  he  thought  that 
at  Eubcea  the  fleet  had  not  done  its  best, 
because  he  himself  was  not  there  to  see — 
whereas  this  tune  he  resolved  that  he 
would  be  an  eye-witness  of  the  combat. 

Orders  were  now  given  to  stand  out  to 
sea;  and  the  ships  proceeded  towards 
Salamis,  and  took  up  the  stations  to  which 
they  were  directed,  without  let  or  hin- 
drance from  the  enemy.  The  day,  how- 
ever, was  too  far  spent  for  them  to  begin 
the  battle,  since  night  already  approached: 
so  they  prepared  to  engage  upon  the 
morrow.  The  Greeks,  meanwhile,  were 
in  great  distress  and  alarm,  more  espe- 
cially those  of  the  Peloponnese,  who  were 
troubled  that  they  had  been  kept  at 
Salamis  to  fight  on  behalf  of  the  Athenian 
territory,  and  feared  that,  if  they  should 
suffer  defeat,  they  would  be  pent  up  and 
besieged  in  an  island,  while  their  own  coun- 
try was  left  unprotected. 

The  same  night  the  land  army  of  the 
barbarians  began  its  march  towards  the 
Peloponnese,  where,  however,  all  that 
was  possible  had  been  done  to  prevent 
the  enemy  from  forcing  an  entrance  by 
land.  As  soon  as  ever  news  reached  the 
Peloponnese  of  the  death  of  Leonidas  and 
his  companions  at  Thermopylae,  the  in- 
habitants flocked  together  from  the  various 
cities,  and  encamped  at  the  Isthmusv  under 
the  command  of  Cleombrotus,  son  of 
Anaxandridas,  and  brother  of  Leonidas. 
Here  their  first  care  was  to  block  up  the 


236 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Scironian  Way;  after  which  it  was  deter- 
mined in  council  to  build  a  wall  across 
the  Isthmus.  As  the  number  assembled 
amounted  to  many  tens  of  thousands,  and 
there  was  not  one  who  did  not  give  himself 
to  the  work,  it  was  soon  finished.  Stones, 
bricks,  timber,  baskets  filled  full  of  sand, 
were  used  in  the  building;  and  not  a 
moment  was  lost  by  those  who  gave  their 
aid;  for  they  labored  without  ceasing 
either  by  night  or  day. 

Now  the  nations  who  gave  their  aid, 
and  who  had  flocked  in  full  force  to  the 
Isthmus,  were  the  following:  the  Lacedae- 
monians, all  the  tribes  of  the  Arcadians, 
the  Eleans,  the  Corinthians,  the  Sicyon- 
ians,  the  Epidaurians,  the  Phliasians, 
the  Troezenians,  and  the  Hermionians. 
These  all  gave  their  aid,  being  greatly 
alarmed  at  the  danger  which  threatened 
Greece.  But  the  other  inhabitants  of  the 
Peloponnese  took  no  part  in  the  matter; 
though  the  Olympic  and  Carneian  festivals 
were  now  over. 

Seven  nations  inhabit  the  Peloponnese. 
Two  of  them  are  aboriginal,  and  still  con- 
tinue in  the  regions  where  they  dwelt 
at  the  first — to  wit,  the  Arcadians  and  the 
Cynurians.  A  third,  that  of  the  Achaeans, 
has  never  left  the  Peloponnese,  but  has 
been  dislodged  from  its  own  proper  coun- 
try, and  inhabits  a  district  which  once 
belonged  to  others.  The  remaining  na- 
tions, four  out  of  the  seven,  are  all  immi- 
grants— namely,  the  Dorians,  the  ^Eto- 
Uans,  the  Dryopians,  and  the  Lemnians. 
To  the  Dorians  belong  several  very  famous 
cities;  to  the  ^Etolians  one  only,  that  is, 
Elis;  to  the  Dryopians,  Hermione  and  that 
Asine  which  lies  over  against  Cardamyle 
in  Laconia;  to  the  Lemnians,  all  the  towns 
of  the  Paroreats.  The  aboriginal  Cynu- 
rians alone  seem  to  be  lonians;  even  they, 
however,  have,  in  course  of  time,  grown 
to  be  Dorians,  under  the  government  of  the 
Argives,  whose  Orneats  and  vassals  they 
were.  All  the  cities  of  these  seven  nations, 
except  those  mentioned  above,  stood  aloof 
from  the  war;  and  by  so  doing,  if  I  may 
speak  freely,  they  in  fact  took  part  with 
the  Medes. 

So  the  Greeks  at  the  Isthmus  toiled 


unceasingly,  as  though  in  the  greatest 
peril;  since  they  never  imagined  that  any 
great  success  would  be  gained  by  the  fleet. 
The  Greeks  at  Salamis,  on  the  other  hand, 
when  they  heard  what  the  rest  were  about, 
felt  greatly  alarmed;  but  their  fear  was 
not  so  much  for  themselves  as  for  the 
Peloponnese.  At  first  they  conversed 
together  in  low  tones,  each  man  with  his 
fellow,  secretly,  and  marvelled  at  the  folly 
shown  by  Eurybiades;  but  presently  the 
smothered  feeling  broke  out,  and  another 
assembly  was  held;  whereat  the  old  sub- 
jects provoked  much  talk  from  the 
speakers,  one  side  maintaining  that  it  was 
best  to  sail  to  the  Peloponnese  and  risk 
battle  for  that,  instead  of  abiding  at 
Salamis  and  fighting  for  a  land  already 
taken  by  the  enemy;  while  the  other, 
which  consisted  of  the  Athenians,  Egine- 
tans,  and  Megarians,  was  urgent  to  remain 
and  have  the  battle  fought  where  they 
were. 

Then  Themistocles,  when  he  saw  that 
the  Peloponnesians  would  carry  the  vote 
against  him,  went  out  secretly  from  the 
council,  and,  instructing  a  certain  man 
what  he  should  say,  sent  him  on  board  a 
merchant  ship  to  the  fleet  of  the  Medes. 
The  man's  name  was  Sicinnus;  he  was  one 
of  Themistocles'  household  slaves,  and 
acted  as  tutor  to  his  sons;  in  after  times, 
when  the  Thespians  were  admitting  per- 
sons to  citizenship,  Themistocles  made 
him  a  Thespian,  and  a  rich  man  to  boot. 
The  ship  brought  Sicinnus  to  the  Persian 
fleet,  and  there  he  delivered  his  message 
to  the  leaders  in  these  words: — 

"The  Athenian  commander  has  sent 
me  to  you  privily,  without  the  knowledge 
of  the  other  Greeks.  He  is  a  well-wisher 
to  the  king's  cause,  and  would  rather  suc- 
cess should  attend  on  you  than  on  his 
countrymen;  wherefore  he  bids  me  tell 
you  that  fear  has  seized  the  Greeks  and 
they  are  meditating  a  hasty  flight.  Now 
then  it  is  open  to  you  to  achieve  the  best 
work  that  ever  ye  wrought,  if  only  ye 
will  hinder  their  escaping.  They  no  longer 
agree  among  themselves,  so  that  they  will 
not  now  make  any  resistance — nay,  't  is 
likely  ye  may  see  a  fight  already  begun 


HISTORY 


237 


between  such  as  favor  and  such  as  oppose 
your  cause."  The  messenger,  when  he 
had  thus  expressed  himself,  departed  and 
was  seen  no  more. 

Then  the  captains,  believing  all  that 
the  messenger  had  said,  proceeded  to  land 
a  large  body  of  Persian  troops  on  the 
islet  of  Psyttaleia,  which  lies  between 
Salamis  and  the  mainland;  after  which, 
about  the  hour  of  midnight,  they  advanced 
their  western  wing  towards  Salamis,  so  as 
to  inclose  the  Greeks.  At  the  same  time 
the  force  stationed  about  Ceos  and  Cyno- 
sura  moved  forward,  and  filled  the  whole 
strait  as  far  as  Munychia  with  their  ships. 
This  advance  was  made  to  prevent  the 
Greeks  from  escaping  by  flight,  and  to 
block  them  up  in  Salamis,  where  it  was 
thought  that  vengeance  might  be  taken 
upon  them  for  the  battles  fought  near 
Artemisium.  The  Persian  troops  were 
landed  on  the  islet  of  Psyttaleia,  because, 
as  soon  as  the  battle  began,  the  men  and 
wrecks  were  likely  to  be  drifted  thither, 
as  the  isle  lay  in  the  very  path  of  the  com- 
ing fight, — and  they  would  thus  be  able 
to  save  their  own  men  and  destroy  those 
of  the  enemy.  All  these  movements  were 
made  in  silence,  that  the  Greeks  might 
have  no  knowledge  of  them;  and  they 
occupied  the  whole  night,  so  that  the  men 
had  no  time  to  get  their  sleep. 

I  cannot  say  that  there  is  no  truth  in 
prophecies,  or  feel  inclined  to  call  in  ques- 
tion those  which  speak  with  clearness, 
when  I  think  of  the  following: — 

"When  they  shall  bridge  with  their  ships  to  the 
sacred  strand  of  Diana 

Girt  with  the  golden  falchion,  and  eke  to  marine 
Cynosura, 

Mad  hope  swelling  their  hearts  at  the  downfall 
of  beautiful  Athens — 

Then  shall  godlike  Right  extinguish  haughty 
Presumption, 

Insult's  furious  offspring,  who  thinketh  to  over- 
throw all  things. 

Brass  with  brass  shall  mingle,  and  Mars  with 
blood  shall  empurple 

Ocean's  waves.  Then — then  shall  the  day  of 
Grecia's  freedom 

Come  from  Victory  fair,  and  Saturn's  son  all- 
seeing." 

When  I  look  to  this,  and  perceive  how 
clearly   Bacis   spoke,    I   neither   venture 


myself  to  say  anything  against  prophecies 
nor  do  I  approve  of  others  impugning 
them. 

Meanwhile,  among  the  captains  at 
Salamis,  the  strife  of  words  grew  fierce. 
As  yet  they  did  not  know  that  they  were 
encompassed,  but  imagined  that  the  bar- 
barians remained  in  the  same  places  where 
they  had  seen  them  the  day  before. 

In  the  midst  of  their  contention,  Aris- 
tides,  the  son  of  Lysimachus,  who  had 
crossed  from  Egina,  arrived  in  Salamis. 
He  was  an  Athenian,  and  had  been  ostra- 
cized by  the  commonalty;  yet  I  believe, 
from  what  I  have  heard  concerning  his 
character,  that  there  was  not  in  all  Athens 
a  man  so  worthy  or  so  just  as  he.  He 
now  came  to  the  council,  and,  standing 
outside,  called  for  Themistocles.  Now 
Themistocles  was  not  his  friend,  but  his 
most  determined  enemy.  However,  under 
the  pressure  of  the  great  dangers  impend- 
ing, Aristides  forgot  their  feud,  and  called 
Themistocles  out  of  the  council,  since  he 
wished  to  confer  with  him.  He  had  heard 
before  his  arrival  of  the  impatience  of  the 
Peloponnesians  to  withdraw  the  fleet  tc 
the  Isthmus.  As  soon  therefore  as  The- 
mistocles came  forth,  Aristides  addressed 
him  in  these  words: — 

"Our  rivalry  at  all  times,  and  especially 
at  the  present  season,  ought  to  be  a  strug- 
gle, which  of  us  shall  most  advantage 
our  country.  Let  me  then  say  to  thee, 
that  so  far  as  regards  the  departure  of  the 
Peloponnesians  from  this  place,  much  talk 
and  little  will  be  found  precisely  alike. 
I  have  seen  with  my  own  eyes  that  which 
I  now  report:  that,  however  much  the 
Corinthians  or  Eurybiades  himself  may 
wish  it,  they  cannot  now  retreat;  for  we 
are  enclosed  on  every  side  by  the  enemy. 
Go  hi  to  them,  and  make  this  known." 

"Thy  advice  is  excellent,"  answered  the 
other;  "and  thy  tidings  are  also  good. 
That  which  I  earnestly  desired  to  happen, 
thine  eyes  have  beheld  accomplished. 
Know  that  what  the  Medes  have  now  done 
was  at  my  instance;  for  it  was  necessary, 
as  our  men  would  not  fight  here  of  their 
own  free  will,  to  make  them  fight  whether 
they  would  or  no.  But  come  now,  as  thou 


338 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


hast  brought  the  good  news,  go  in  and 
tell  it.  For  if  I  speak  to  them,  they  will 
think  it  a  feigned  tale,  and  will  not  believe 
that  the  barbarians  have  inclosed  us 
around.  Therefore  do  thou  go  to  them, 
and  inform  them  how  matters  stand.  If 
they  believe  thee,  't  will  be  for  the  best; 
but  if  otherwise,  it  will  not  harm.  For  it 
is  impossible  that  they  should  now  flee 
away,  if  we  are  indeed  shut  in  on  all  sides, 
as  thou  sayest." 

Then  Aristides  entered  the  assembly, 
and  spoke  to  the  captains:  he  had  come, 
he  told  them,  from  Egina,  and  had  but 
barely  escaped  the  blockading  vessels — 
the  Greek  fleet  was  entirely  inclosed  by 
the  ships  of  Xerxes — and  he  advised  them 
to  get  themselves  in  readiness  to  resist  the 
foe.  Having  said  so  much,  he  withdrew. 
And  now  another  contest  arose;  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  captains  would  not  be- 
lieve the  tidings. 

But  while  they  still  doubted,  a  Tenian 
trireme,  commanded  by  Panaetius  the  son 
of  Sosimenes,  deserted  from  the  Persians 
and  joined  the  Greeks,  bringing  full  in- 
telligence. For  this  reason  the  Tenians 
were  inscribed  upon  the  tripod  at  Delphi 
among  those  who  overthrew  the  barba- 
rians. With  this  ship,  which  deserted 
to  their  side  at  Salamis,  and  the  Lemnian 
vessel  which  came  over  before  at  Arte- 
misium,  the  Greek  fleet  was  brought  to 
the  full  number  of  380  ships;  otherwise  it 
fell  short  by  two  of  that  amount. 

The  Greeks  now,  not  doubting  what  the 
Tenians  told  them,  made  ready  for  the 
coming  fight.  At  the  dawn  of  day,  all 
the  men-at-arms  were  assembled  together, 
and  speeches  were  made  to  them,  of  which 
the  best  was  that  of  Themistocles;  who 
throughout  contrasted  what  was  noble 
with  what  was  base,  and  bade  them,  in  all 
that  came  within  the  range  of  man's 
nature  and  constitution,  always  to  make 
choice  of  the  nobler  part.  Having  thus 
wound  up  his  discourse,  he  told  them  to  go 
at  once  on  board  their  ships,  which  they 
accordingly  did;  and  about  this  time  the 
trireme,  that  had  been  sent  to  Egina  for 
the  jEacidae,  returned;  whereupon  the 
Greeks  put  to  sea  with  all  their  fleet. 


The  fleet  had  scarce  left  the  land  when 
they  were  attacked  by  the  barbarians.  At 
once  most  of  the  Greeks  began  to  back 
water,  and  were  about  touching  the  shore, 
when  Ameinias  of  Pallene,  one  of  the  Athe- 
nian captains,  darted  forth  in  front  of 
the  line,  and  charged  a  ship  of  the  enemy. 
The  two  vessels  became  entangled,  and 
could  not  separate,  whereupon  the  rest 
of  the  fleet  came  up  to  help  Ameinias,  and 
engaged  with  the  Persians.  Such  is  the 
account  which  the  Athenians  give  of  the 
way  in  which  the  battle  began;  but  the 
Eginetans  maintain  that  the  vessel  which 
had  been  to  Egina  for  the  /Eacidae,  was 
the  one  that  brought  on  the  fight.  It  is 
also  reported,  that  a  phantom  in  the  form 
of  a  woman  appeared  to  the  Greeks,  and, 
in  a  voice  that  was  heard  from  end  to 
end  of  the  fleet,  cheered  them  on  to  the 
fight;  first,  however,  rebuking  them,  and 
saying — "Strange  men,  how  long  are  ye 
going  to  back  water?  " 

Against  the  Athenians,  who  held  the 
western  extremity  of  the  line  towards 
Eleusis,  were  placed  the  Phoenicians; 
against  the  Lacedaemonians,  whose  station 
was  eastward  towards  the  Piraeus,  the 
lonians.  Of  these  last  a  few  only  followed 
the  advice  of  Themistocles,  to  fight  back- 
wardly;  the  greater  number  did  far 
otherwise.  I  could  mention  here  the 
names  of  many  trierarchs  who  took  vessels 
from  the  Greeks,  but  I  shall  pass  over  all 
excepting  Theome'stor,  the  son  of  Andro- 
damas,  and  Phylacus,  the  son  of  Histiaeus, 
both  Samians.  I  show  this  preference 
to  them,  inasmuch  as  for  this  service 
Theomestor  was  made  tyrant  of  Samos 
by  the  Persians,  while  Phylacus  was 
enrolled  among  the  king's  benefactors, 
and  presented  with  a  large  estate  in  land. 
In  the  Persian  tongue  the  king's  benefac- 
tors are  called  Orosangs. 

Far  the  greater  number  of  the  Persian 
ships  engaged  in  this  battle  were  disabled, 
either  by  the  Athenians  or  by  the  Egine- 
tans. For  as  the  Greeks  fought  in  order 
and  kept  their  line,  while  the  barbarians 
were  in  confusion  and  had  no  plan  hi 
anything  that  they  did,  the  issue  of  the 
battle  could  scarce  bs  other  than  it  was. 


HISTORY 


239 


Yet  the  Persians  fought  far  more  bravely 
here  than  at  Euboea,  and  indeed  surpassed 
themselves;  each  did  his  utmost  through 
fear  of  Xerxes,  for  each  thought  that  the 
king's  eye  was  upon  himself. 

What  part  the  several  nations,  whether 
Greek  or  barbarian,  took  in  the  combat, 
I  am  not  able  to  say  for  certain;  Artemisia, 
however,  I  know,  distinguished  herself 
in  such  a  way  as  raised  her  even  higher 
than  she  stood  before  in  the  esteem  of 
the  king.  For  after  confusion  had  spread 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  king's  fleet, 
and  her  ship  was  closely  pursued  by  an 
Athenian  trireme,  she,  having  no  way  to 
fly,  since  in  front  of  her  were  a  number  of 
friendly  vessels,  and  she  was  nearest  of  all 
the  Persians  to  the  enemy,  resolved  on  a 
measure  which  in  fact  proved  her  safety. 
Pressed  by  the  Athenian  pursuer,  she  bore 
straight  against  one  of  the  ships  of  her 
own  party,  a  Calyndian,  which  had  Da- 
masithymus,  the  Calyndian  king,  himself 
on  board.  I  cannot  say  whether  she  had 
had  any  quarrel  with  the  man  while  the 
fleet  was  at  the  Hellespont,  or  no — neither 
can  I  decide  whether  she  of  set  purpose 
attacked  his  vessel,  or  whether  it  merely 
chanced  that  the  Calyndian  ship  came  in 
her  way — but  certain  it  is  that  she  bore 
down  upon  his  vessel  and  sank  it,  and  that 
thereby  she  had  the  good  fortune  to  pro- 
cure herself  a  double  advantage.  For  the 
commander  of  the  Athenian  trireme,  when 
he  saw  her  bear  down  on  one  of  the  enemy's 
fleet,  thought  immediately  that  her  vessel 
was  a  Greek,  or  else  had  deserted  from 
the  Persians,  and  was  now  fighting  on  the 
Greek  side;  he  therefore  gave  up  the  chase, 
and  turned  away  to  attack  others. 

Thus  in  the  first  place  she  saved  her 
life  by  the  action,  and  was  enabled  to  get 
clear  off  from  the  battle;  while  further, 
it  fell  out  that  in  the  very  act  of  doing 
the  king  an  hi  jury  she  raised  herself  to  a 
greater  height  than  ever  in  his  esteem. 
For  as  Xerxes  beheld  the  fight,  he  re- 
marked (it  is  said)  the  destruction  of  the 
vessel,  whereupon  the  bystanders  observed 
to  him — "Seest  thou,  master,  how  well 
Artemisia  fights,  and  how  she  has  just  sunk 
a  ship  of  the  enemy?"  Then  Xerxes 


asked  if  it  were  really  Artemisia's  doing; 
and  they  answered,  "Certainly;  for  they 
knew  her  ensign:"  while  all  made  sure 
that  the  sunken  vessel  belonged  to  the 
opposite  side.  Everything,  it  is  said, 
conspired  to  prosper  the  queen — it  was 
especially  fortunate  for  her  that  not  one 
of  those  on  board  the  Calyndian  ship  sur- 
vived to  become  her  accuser.  Xerxes, 
they  say,  in  reply  to  the  remarks  made  to 
him,  observed — "My  men  have  behaved 
like  women,  my  women  like  men!" 

There  fell  in  this  combat  Ariabignes, 
one  of  the  chief  commanders  of  the  fleet, 
who  was  son  of  Darius  and  brother  of 
Xerxes;  and  with  him  perished  a  vast 
number  of  men  of  high  repute,  Persians, 
Medes,  and  allies.  Of  the  Greeks  there 
died  only  a  few;  for,  as  they  were  able  to 
swim,  all  those  that  were  not  slain  outright 
by  the  enemy  escaped  from  the  sinking 
vessels  and  swam  across  to  Salamis.  But 
on  the  side  of  the  barbarians  more  perished 
by  drowning  than  in  any  other  way,  since 
they  did  not  know  how  to  swim.  The 
great  destruction  took  place  when  the 
ships  which  had  been  first  engaged  began 
to  fly;  for  they  who  were  stationed  in  the 
rear,  anxious  to  display  their  valor  before 
the  eyes  of  the  king,  made  every  effort 
to  force  their  way  to  the  front,  and  thus 
became  entangled  with  such  of  their  own 
vessels  as  were  retreating. 

In  this  confusion  the  following  event 
occurred:  Certain  Phoenicians  belonging 
to  the  ships  which  had  thus  perished  made 
their  appearance  before  the  king,  and  laid 
the  blame  of  their  loss  on  the  lonians,  de- 
claring that  they  were  traitors,  and  had 
wilfully  destroyed  the  vessels.  But  the 
upshot  of  this  complaint  was,  that  the 
Ionian  captains  escaped  the  death  which 
threatened  them,  while  their  Phoenician 
accusers  received  death  as  their  reward. 
For  it  happened  that,  exactly  as  they 
spoke,  a  Samothracian  vessel  bore  down 
on  an  Athenian  and  sank  it,  but  was  at- 
tacked and  crippled  immediately  by  one  of 
the  Eginetan  squadron.  Now  the  Samo- 
thracians  were  expert  with  the  javelin,  and 
aimed  their  weapons  so  well,  that  they 
cleared  the  deck  of  the  vessel  which  had 


240 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


disabled  their  own,  after  which  they  sprang 
on  board,  and  took  it.  This  saved  the 
lonians.  Xerxes,  when  he  saw  the  ex- 
ploit, turned  fiercely  on  the  Phoenicians 
— (he  was  ready,  in  his  extreme  vexation, 
to  find  fault  with  any  one) — and  ordered 
their  heads  to  be  cut  off,  to  prevent  them, 
he  said,  from  casting  the  blame  of  their 
own  misconduct  upon  braver  men.  Dur- 
ing the  whole  time  of  the  battle  Xerxes 
sate  at  the  base  of  the  hill  called  ^Egaleds, 
over  against  Salamis;  and  whenever  he 
saw  any  of  his  own  captains  perform  any 
worthy  exploit  he  inquired  concerning 
him ;  and  the  man's  name  was  taken  down 
by  his  scribes  together  with  the  names 
of  his  father  and  his  city.  Ariaramnes  too, 
a  Persian,  who  was  a  friend  of  the  lonians, 
and  present  at  the  time  whereof  I  speak, 
had  a  share  in  bringing  about  the  punish- 
ment of  the  Phoenicians. 

When  the  rout  of  the  barbarians  began, 
and  they  sought  to  make  their  escape  to 
Phalerum,  the  Eginetans,  awaiting  them 
in  the  channel,  performed  exploits  worthy 
to  be  recorded.  Through  the  whole  of 
the  confused  struggle  the  Athenians  em- 
ployed themselves  in  destroying  such  ships 
as  either  made  resistance  or  fled  to  shore, 
while  the  Eginetans  dealt  with  those  which 
endeavored  to  escape  down  the  strait;  so 
that  the  Persian  vessels  were  no  sooner 
clear  of  the  Athenians  than  forthwith 
they  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Eginetan 
squadron. 

It  chanced  here  that  there  was  a  meeting 
between  the  ship  of  Themistocles,  which 
was  hasting  in  pursuit  of  the  enemy, 
and  that  of  Polycritus,  son  of  Crius  the 
Eginetan,  which  had  just  charged  a 
Sidonian  trireme.  The  Sidonian  vessel 
was  the  same  that  captured  the  Eginetan 
guard-ship  off  Sciathus,  which  had  Py- 
theas,  the  son  of  Ischenoiis,  on  board — 
that  Pytheas,  I  mean,  who  fell  covered 
with  wounds,  and  whom  the  Sidonians 
kept  on  board  their  ship,  from  admiration 
of  his  gallantry.  This  man  afterwards 
returned  in  safety  to  Egina;  for  when  the 
Sidonian  vessel  with  its  Persian  crew  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  Greeks,  he  was  still 
-found  on  board,  Polycritus  no  sooner  saw 


the  Athenian  trireme  than,  knowing  at 
once  whose  vessel  it  was,  as  he  observed 
that  it  bore  the  ensign  of  the  admiral,  he 
shouted  to  Themistocles  jeeringly,  and 
asked  him,  in  a  tone  of  reproach,  if  the 
Eginetans  did  not  show  themselves  rare 
friends  to  the  Medes.  At  the  same  time, 
while  he  thus  reproached  Themistocles, 
Polycritus  bore  straight  down  on  the 
Sidonian.  Such  of  the  barbarian  vessels  as 
escaped  from  the  battle  fled  to  Phalerum, 
and  there  sheltered  themselves  under  the 
protection  of  the  land  army. 

The  Greeks  who  gained  the  greatest 
glory  of  all  in  the  sea-fight  off  Salamis 
were  the  Eginetans,  and  after  them  the 
Athenians.  The  individuals  of  most  dis- 
tinction were  Polycritus  the  Eginetan,  and 
two  Athenians,  Eumenes  of  Anagyrus,  and 
Ameinias  of  Pallene;  the  latter  of  whom 
had  pressed  Artemisia  so  hard.  And  as- 
suredly, if  he  had  known  that  the  vessel 
carried  Artemisia  on  board,  he  would  never 
have  given  over  the  chase  till  he  had  either 
succeeded  in  taking  her,  or  else  been  taken 
himself.  For  the  Athenian  captains  had 
received  special  orders  touching  the  queen; 
and  moreover  a  reward  of  ten  thousand 
drachmas  had  been  proclaimed  for  any 
one  who  should  make  her  prisoner;  since 
there  was  great  indignation  felt  that  a 
woman  should  appear  in  arms  against 
Athens.  However,  as  I  said  before,  she 
escaped;  and  so  did  some  others  whose  ships 
survived  the  engagement;  and  these  were  all 
now  assembled  at  the  port  of  Phalerum. 
The  Athenians  say  that  Adeimantus, 
the  Corinthian  commander,  at  the  mo- 
ment when  the  two  fleets  joined  battle,  was 
seized  with  fear,  and  being  beyond  measure 
alarmed,  spread  his  sails,  and  hasted  to 
fly  away;  on  which  the  other  Corinthians, 
seeing  their  leader's  ship  in  full  flight, 
sailed  off  likewise.  They  had  reached  in 
their  flight  that  part  of  the  coast  of  Salamis 
where  stands  the  temple  of  Minerva  Sciras, 
when  they  met  a  light  bark,  a  very  strange 
apparition:  it  was  never  discovered  that 
any  one  had  sent  it  to  them;  and  till  it 
appeared  they  were  altogether  ignorant 
how  the  battle  was  going.  That  there  was 
something  beyond  nature  in  the  matter 


HISTORY 


241 


they  judged  from  this — that  when  the 
men  in  the  bark  drew  near  to  their  ships 
they  addressed  them,  saying — "Adeiman- 
tus,  while  them  playest  the  traitor's  part, 
by  withdrawing  all  these  ships,  and  flying 
away  from  the  fight,  the  Greeks  whom  thou 
hast  deserted  are  defeating  their  foes  as 
completely  as  they  ever  wished  hi  their 
prayers."  Adeimantus,  however,  would 
not  believe  what  the  men  said;  whereupon 
they  told  him,  "he  might  take  them  with 
him  as  hostages,  and  put  them  to  death 
if  he  did  not  find  the  Greeks  whining." 
Then  Adeimantus  put  about,  both  he 
and  those  who  were  with  him;  and  they 
re-joined  the  fleet  when  the  victory  was 
already  gained.  Such  is  the  tale  which  the 
Athenians  tell  concerning  them  of  Corinth; 
these  latter  however  do  not  allow  its  truth. 
On  the  contrary,  they  declare  that  they 
were  among  those  who  distinguished  them- 
selves most  in  the  fight.  And  the  rest  of 
Greece  bears  witness  hi  their  favor. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confusion  Aristides, 
the  son  of  Lysimachus,  the  Athenian,  of 
whom  I  lately  spoke  as  a  man  of  the  great- 
est excellence,  performed  the  following 
service.  He  took  a  number  of  the  Athe- 
nian heavy-armed  troops,  who  had  pre- 


viously been  stationed  along  the  shore  of 
Salamis,  and,  landing  with  them  on  the 
islet  of  Psyttaleia,  slew  all  the  Persians 
by  whom  it  was  occupied. 

As  soon  as  the  sea-fight  was  ended,  the 
Greeks  drew  together  to  Salamis  all  the 
wrecks  that  were  to  be  found  in  that 
quarter,  and  prepared  themselves  for 
another  engagement,  supposing  that  the 
king  would  renew  the  fight  with  the  vessels 
which  still  remained  to  him.  Many  of 
the  wrecks  had  been  carried  away  by  a 
westerly  wind  to  the  coast  of  Attica,  where 
they  were  thrown  upon  the  strip  of  shore 
called  Colias.  Thus  not  only  were  the 
prophecies  of  Bacis  and  Musaeus  concern- 
ing this  battle  fulfilled  completely,  but 
likewise,  by  the  place  to  which  the  wrecks 
were  drifted,  the  prediction  of  Lysistratus, 
an  Athenian  soothsayer,  uttered  many 
years  before  these  events,  and  quite  for- 
gotten at  the  time  by  all  the  Greeks,  was 
fully  accomplished.  The  words  were — 

"Then  shall  the  sight  of  the  oars  fill  Colian  dames 
with  amazement." 

Now  this  must  have  happened  as  soon  as 
the  king  was  departed. 


THUCYDIDES  (47i?-4oo?  B.  C.) 

Very  different  is  the  great  historian  of  the  fatal  struggle  between  the  two  imperialistic  cities,  Athens 
and  Sparta.  An  active  participant  in  the  struggle,  he  was  the  first  and  still  remains  one  of  the  greatest 
of  critical  investigators  into  the  causes  of  historical  events  and  of  the  motives  of  the  men  who  took  part 
in  them.  A  skeptic  and  a  philosopher,  he  has  revealed  in  this  tragic  drama  the  beginning  of  the  long 
decay  of  the  glorious  civilization  that  was  Greece,  caused  by  the  underlying  selfishness  of  men  in  their 
relations  to  each  other.  The  first  of  the  selections  describes  in  the  lofty  language  of  Pericles  the  Athenian 
ideal  of  individual  perfection;  the  second  is  an  illuminating  commentary  on  the  revolutionary  character 
wherever  it  may  be  found. 

Translation  by  Richard  Crawley. 


THE  PELOPONNESIAN  WAR 
THE  FUNERAL  ORATION  OF  PERICLES 

IN  THE  same  winter  the  Athenians  gave 
a  funeral  at  the  public  cost  to  those  who 
had  first  fallen  in  this  war.  It  was  a 
custom  of  their  ancestors,  and  the  manner 
of  it  is  as  follows.  Three  days  before  the 
ceremony,  the  bones  of  the  dead  are  laid 
out  in  a  tent  which  has  been  erected;  and 
their  friends  bring  to  their  relatives  such 


offerings  as  they  please.  In  the  funeral 
procession  cypress  coffins  are  borne  in 
cars,  one  for  each  tribe;  the  bones  of  the 
deceased  being  placed  in  the  coffin  of  their 
tribe.  Among  these  is  carried  one  empty 
bier  decked  for  the  missing,  that  is,  for 
those  whose  bodies  could  not  be  recovered. 
Any  citizen  or  stranger  who  pleases,  joins 
in  the  procession:  and  the  female  relatives 
are  there  to  wail  at  the  burial.  The  dead 
are  laid  hi  the  public  sepulcher  in  the 


242 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


beautiful  suburb  of  the  city,  in  which  those 
who  fall  in  war  are  always  buried;  with 
the  exception  of  those  slain  at  Marathon, 
who  for  their  singular  and  extraordinary 
valor  were  interred  on  the  spot  where  they 
fell.  After  the  bodies  have  been  laid  in 
the  earth,  a  man  chosen  by  the  state,  of 
approved  wisdom  and  eminent  reputation, 
pronounces  over  them  an  appropriate 
panegyric;  after  which  all  retire.  Such  is 
the  manner  of  the  burying;  and  through- 
out the  whole  of  the  war,  whenever  the 
occasion  arose,  the  established  custom  was 
observed.  Meanwhile  these  were  the 
first  that  had  fallen,  and  Pericles,  son  of 
Xanthippus,  was  chosen  to  pronounce  their 
eulogium.  When  the  proper  time  arrived, 
he  advanced  from  the  sepulcher  to  an  ele- 
vated platform  in  order  to  be  heard  by  as 
many  of  the  crowd  as  possible,  and  spoke 
as  follows: 

"Most  of  my  predecessors  in  this  place 
have  commended  him  who  made  this 
speech  part  of  the  law,  telling  us  that  it  is 
well  that  it  should  be  delivered  at  the 
burial  of  those  who  fall  in  battle.  For 
myself,  I  should  have  thought  that  the 
worth  which  had  displayed  itself  in  deeds, 
would  be  sufficiently  rewarded  by  honors 
also  shown  by  deeds;  such  as  you  now  see 
in  this  funeral  prepared  at  the  people's 
cost.  And  I  could  have  wished  that  the 
reputations  of  many  brave  men  were  not 
to  be  imperilled  in  the  mouth  of  a  single 
individual,  to  stand  or  fall  according  as  he 
spoke  well  or  ill.  For  it  is  hard  to  speak 
properly  upon  a  subject  where  it  is  even 
difficult  to  convince  your  hearers  that  you 
are  speaking  the  truth.  On  the  one  hand, 
the  friend  who  is  familiar  with  every  fact 
of  the  story,  may  think  that  some  point 
has  not  been  set  forth  with  that  fulness 
which  he  wishes  and  knows  it  to  deserve; 
on  the  other,  he  who  is  a  stranger  to  the 
matter  may  be  led  by  envy  to  suspect  ex- 
aggeration if  he  hears  anything  above 
his  own  nature.  For  men  can  endure  to 
hear  others  praised  only  so  long  as  they 
can  severally  persuade  themselves  of  their 
own  ability  to  equal  the  actions  recounted: 
when  this  point  is  passed,  envy  comes  in 
and  with  it  incredulity.  However,  since 


our  ancestors  have  stamped  this  custom 
with  their  approval,  it  becomes  my  duty  to 
obey  the  law  and  to  try  to  satisfy  your 
several  wishes  and  opinions  as  best  I  may. 

"I  shall  begin  with  our  ancestors:  it  is 
both  just  and  proper  that  they  should 
have  the  honor  of  the  first  mention  on  an 
occasion  like  the  present.  They  dwelt  in 
the  country  without  break  in  the  succession 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  handed 
it  down  free  to  the  present  time  by  their 
valor.  And  if  our  more  remote  ancestors 
deserve  praise,  much  more  do  our  own 
fathers,  who  added  to  their  inheritance 
the  empire  which  we  now  possess,  and 
spared  no  pains  to  be  able  to  leave  their 
acquisitions  to  us  of  the  present  generation. 
Lastly,  there  are  few  parts  of  our  do- 
minions that  have  not  been  augmented  by 
those  of  us  here,  who  are  still  more  or  less 
in  the  vigor  of  life;  while  the  mother 
country  has  been  furnished  by  us  with 
everything  that  can  enable  her  to  depend 
on  her  own  resources  whether  for  war  or 
for  peace.  That  part  of  our  history  which 
tells  of  the  military  achievements  which 
gave  us  our  several  possessions,  or  of  the 
ready  valor  with  which  either  we  or  our 
fathers  stemmed  the  tide  of  Hellenic  or 
foreign  aggression,  is  a  theme  too  familiar 
to  my  hearers  for  me  to  dilate  on,  and  I 
shall  therefore  pass  it  by.  But  what  was 
the  road  by  which  we  reached  our  position, 
what  the  form  of  government  under  which 
our  greatness  grew,  what  the  national 
habits  out  of  which  it  sprang;  these  are 
questions  which  I  may  try  to  solve  before 
I  proceed  to  my  panegyric  upon  these 
men;  since  I  think  this  to  be  a  subject 
upon  which  on  the  present  occasion  a 
speaker  may  properly  dwell,  and  to  which 
the  whole  assemblage,  whether  citizens 
or  foreigners,  may  listen  with  advantage. 

"Our  constitution  does  not  copy  the 
laws  of  neighboring  states;  we  are  rather  a 
pattern  to  others  than  imitators  ourselves. 
Its  administration  favors  the  many  in- 
stead of  the  few;  this  is  why  it  is  called  a 
democracy.  If  we  look  to  the  laws,  they 
afford  equal  justice  to  all  in  their  private 
differences;  if  to  social  standing,  advance- 
ment in  public  life  falls  to  reputation  for 


HISTORY 


243 


capacity,  class  considerations  not  being 
allowed  to  interfere  with  merit;  nor  again 
does  poverty  bar  the  way,  if  a  man  is  able 
to  serve  the  state,  he  is  not  hindered  by 
the  obscurity  of  his  condition.  The  free- 
dom which  we  enjoy  in  our  government 
extends  also  to  our  ordinary  life.  There, 
far  from  exercising  a  jealous  surveillance 
over  each  other,  we  do  not  feel  called 
upon  to  be  angry  with  our  neighbor  for 
doing  what  he  likes,  or  even  to  indulge  in 
those  injurious  looks  which  cannot  fail 
to  be  offensive,  although  they  inflict  no 
positive  penalty.  But  all  this  ease  in  our 
private  relations  does  not  make  us  lawless 
as  citizens.  Against  this  fear  is  our  chief 
safeguard,  teaching  us  to  obey  the  magis- 
trates and  the  laws,  particularly  such  as 
regard  the  protection  of  the  injured, 
whether  they  are  actually  on  the  statute 
book,  or  belong  to  that  code  which,  al- 
though unwritten,  yet  cannot  be  broken 
without  acknowledged  disgrace. 

"Further,  we  provide  plenty  of  means 
for  the  mind  to  refresh  itself  from  business. 
We  celebrate  games  and  sacrifices  all  the 
year  round,  and  the  elegance  of  our 
private  establishments  forms  a  daily  source 
of  pleasure  and  helps  to  banish  the  spleen; 
while  the  magnitude  of  our  city  draws  the 
produce  of  the  world  into  our  harbor,  so 
that  to  the  Athenian  the  fruits  of  other 
countries  are  as  familiar  a  luxury  as  those 
of  his  own. 

"If  we  turn  to  our  military  policy, 
there  also  we  differ  from  our  antagonists. 
We  throw  open  our  city  to  the  world, 
and  never  by  alien  acts  exclude  foreigners 
from  any  opportunity  of  learning  or  ob- 
serving, although  the  eyes  of  an  enemy 
may  occasionally  profit  by  our  liberality; 
trusting  less  in  system  and  policy  than  to 
the  native  spirit  of  our  citizens;  while  in 
education,  where  our  rivals  from  their 
very  cradles  by  a  painful  discipline  seek 
after  manliness,  at  Athens  we  live  exactly 
as  we  please,  and  yet  are  just  as  ready  to 
encounter  every  legitimate  danger.  In 
proof  of  this  it  may  be  noticed  that  the 
Lacedemonians  do  not  invade  our  country 
alone,  but  bring  with  them  all  their  con- 
federates; while  we  Athenians  advance 


unsupported  into  the  territory  of  a  neigh- 
bor, and  fighting  upon  a  foreign  soil  usually 
vanquish  with  ease  men  who  are  defending 
their  homes.  Our  united  force  was  never 
yet  encountered  by  any  enemy,  because 
we  have  at  once  to  attend  to  our  marine 
and  to  despatch  our  citizens  by  land  upon 
a  hundred  different  services;  so  that, 
wherever  they  engage  with  some  such 
fraction  of  our  strength,  a  success  against 
a  detachment  is  magnified  into  a  victory 
over  the  nation,  and  a  defeat  into  a  reverse 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  our  entire  people. 
And  yet  if  with  habits  not  of  labor  but  of 
ease,  and  courage  not  of  art  but  of  nature, 
we  are  still  willing  to  encounter  danger, 
we  have  the  double  advantage  of  escaping 
the  experience  of  hardships  in  anticipation 
and  of  facing  them  in  the  hour  of  need  as 
fearlessly  as  those  who  are  never  free  from 
them. 

"Nor  are  these  the  only  points  in  which 
our  city  is  worthy  of  admiration.  We  cul- 
tivate refinement  without  extravagance 
and  knowledge  without  effeminacy;  wealth 
we  employ  more  for  use  than  for  show,  and 
place  the  real  disgrace  of  poverty  not  in 
owning  to  the  fact  but  hi  declining  the 
struggle  against  it.  Our  public  men  have, 
besides  politics,  their  private  affairs  to 
attend  to,  and  our  ordinary  citizens, 
though  occupied  with  the  pursuits  of  in- 
dustry, are  still  fair  judges  of  public  mat- 
ters; for,  unlike  any  other  nation,  re- 
garding him  who  takes  no  part  in  these 
duties  not  as  unambitious  but  as  useless, 
we  Athenians  are  able  to  judge  at  all  events 
if  we  cannot  originate,  and  instead  of  look- 
ing on  discussion  as  a  stumbling-block 
in  the  way  of  action,  we  think  it  an  indis- 
pensable preliminary  to  any  wise  action 
at  all.  Again,  in  our  enterprises  we 
present  the  singular  spectacle  of  daring 
and  deliberation,  each  carried  to  its  high- 
est point,  and  both  united  in  the  same 
persons;  although  usually  decision  is 
the  fruit  of  ignorance,  hesitation  of  reflec- 
tion. But  the  palm  of  courage  will  surely 
be  adjudged  most  justly  to  those  who 
best  know  the  difference  between  hardship 
and  pleasure  and  yet  are  never  tempted  to 
shrink  from  danger.  In  generosity  we  are 


844 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


equally  singular,  acquiring  our  friends  by 
conferring  not  by  receiving  favors.  Yet, 
of  course,  the  doer  of  the  favor  is  the 
firmer  friend  of  the  two,  in  order  by  con- 
tinued kindness  to  keep  the  recipient  in 
his  debt;  while  the  debtor  feels  less  keenly 
from  the  rery  consciousness  that  the  re- 
turn he  makes  will  be  a  payment,  not  a 
free  gift.  And  it  is  only  the  Athenians 
who,  fearless  of  consequences,  confer  their 
benefits  not  from  calculations  of  expe- 
diency, but  in  the  confidence  of  liberality. 

"In  short,  I  say  that  as  a  city  we  are 
the  school  of  Hellas;  while  I  doubt  if  the 
world  can  produce  a  man,  who  where  he 
has  only  himself  to  depend  upon,  is  equal 
to  so  many  emergencies,  and  graced  by 
so  happy  a  versatility  as  the  Athenian. 
And  that  this  is  no  mere  boast  thrown 
out  for  the  occasion,  but  plain  matter  of 
fact,  the  power  of  the  state  acquired  by 
these  habits  proves.  For  Athens  alone 
of  her  contemporaries  is  found  when 
tested  to  be  greater  than  her  reputation, 
and  alone  gives  no  occasion  to  her  assail- 
ants to  blush  at  the  antagonist  by  whom 
they  have  been  worsted,  or  to  her  sub- 
jects to  question  her  title  by  merit  to  rule. 
Rather,  the  admiration  of  the  present 
and  succeeding  ages  will  be  ours,  since 
we  have  not  left  our  power  without  wit- 
ness, but  have  shown  it  by  mighty  proofs; 
and  far  from  needing  a  Homer  for  our 
panegyrist,  or  other  of  his  craft  whose 
verses  might  charm  for  the  moment 
only  for  the  impression  which  they  gave 
to  melt  at  the  touch  of  fact,  we  have  forced 
every  sea  and  land  to  be  the  highway  of 
our  daring,  and  everywhere,  whether  for 
evil  or  for  good,  have  left  imperishable 
monuments  behind  us.  Such  is  the  Athens 
for  which  these  men,  in  the  assertion  of 
their  resolve  not  to  lose  her,  nobly  fought 
and  died;  and  well  may  every  one  of  their 
survivors  be  ready  to  suffer  in  her  cause. 

"Indeed  if  I  have  dwelt  at  some  length 
upon  the  character  of  our  country,  it  has 
been  to  show  that  our  stake  in  the  struggle 
is  not  the  same  as  theirs  who  have  no  such 
blessings  to  lose,  and  also  that  the  panegy- 
ric of  the  men  over  whom  I  am  now  speak- 
ing might  be  by  definite  proofs  established. 


That  panegyric  is  now  in  a  great  measure 
complete;  for  the  Athens  that  I  have 
celebrated  is  only  what  the  heroism  of 
these  and  their  like  have  made  her,  men 
whose  fame,  unlike  that  of  most  Hellenes, 
will  be  found  to  be  only  commensurate 
with  their  deserts.  And  if  a  test  of  worth 
be  wanted,  it  is  to  be  found  in  their  closing 
scene,  and  this  not  only  in  the  cases  in 
which  it  set  the  final  seal  upon  their  merit, 
but  also  in  those  in  which  it  gave  the  first 
intimation  of  their  having  any.  For  there 
is  justice  in  the  claim  that  steadfastness  in 
his  country's  battles  should  be  as  a  cloak 
to  cover  a  man's  other  imperfections;  since 
the  good  action  has  blotted  out  the  bad, 
and  his  merit  as  a  citizen  more  than  out- 
weighed his  demerits  as  an  individual. 
But  none  of  these  allowed  either  wealth 
with  its  prospect  of  future  enjoyment  to 
unnerve  his  spirit,  or  poverty  with  its 
hope  of  a  day  of  freedom  and  riches  to 
tempt  him  to  shrink  from  danger.  No, 
holding  that  vengeance  upon  their  enemies 
was  more  to  be  desired  than  any  personal 
blessings,  and  reckoning  this  to  be  the 
most  glorious  of  hazards,  they  joyfully 
determined  to  accept  the  risk,  to  make  sure 
of  their  vengeance  and  to  let  their  wishes 
wait;  and  while  committing  to  hope  the 
uncertainty  of  final  success,  in  the  business 
before  them  they  thought  fit  to  act  boldly 
and  trust  in  themselves.  Thus  choosing 
to  die  resisting,  rather  than  to  live  sub- 
mitting, they  fled  only  from  dishonor,  but 
met  danger  face  to  face,  and  after  one 
brief  moment,  while  at  the  summit  of 
their  fortune,  escaped,  not  from  their  fear,  . 
but  from  their  glory. 

"So  died  these  men  as  became  Athe- 
nians. You,  their  survivors,  must  deter- 
mine to  have  as  unfaltering  a  resolution 
in  the  field,  though  you  may  pray  that  it 
may  have  a  happier  issue.  And  not  con- 
tented with  ideas  derived  only  from  words 
of  the  advantages  which  are  bound  up 
with  the  defence  of  your  country,  though 
these  would  furnish  a  valuable  text  to  a 
speaker  even  before  an  audience  so  alive 
to  them  as  the  present,  you  must  your- 
selves realize  the  power  of  Athens,  and 
feed  your  eyes  upon  her  from  day  to  day, 


HISTORY 


245 


till  love  of  her  fills  your  hearts;  and  then 
when  all  her  greatness  shall  break  upon 
you,  you  must  reflect  that  it  was  by  cour- 
age, sense  of  duty,  and  a  keen  feeling  of 
honor  in  action  that  men  were  enabled  to 
win  all  this,  and  that  no  personal  failure 
in  an  enterprise  could  make  them  consent 
to  deprive  their  country  of  their  valor, 
but  they  laid  it  at  her  feet  as  the  most 
glorious  contribution  that  they  could  offer. 
For  this  offering  of  their  lives  made  in 
common  by  them  all  they  each  of  them 
individually  received  that  renown  which 
never  grows  old,  and  for  a  sepulcher,  not 
so  much  that  in  which  then:  bones  have 
been  deposited,  but  that  noblest  of  shrines 
wherein  their  glory  is  laid  up  to  be  eternally 
remembered  upon  every  occasion  on  which 
deed  or  story  shall  call  for  its  commemora- 
tion. For  heroes  have  the  whole  earth 
for  their  tomb ;  and  in  lands  far  from  their 
own,  where  the  column  with  its  epitaph 
declares  it,  there  is  enshrined  in  every 
breast  a  record  unwritten  with  no  tablet 
to  preserve  it,  except  that  of  the  heart. 
These  take  as  your  model,  and  judging 
happiness  to  be  the  fruit  of  freedom  and 
freedom  of  valor,  never  decline  the  dangers 
of  war.  For  it  is  not  the  miserable  that 
would  most  justly  be  unsparing  of  their 
lives;  these  have  nothing  to  hope  for:  it  is 
rather  they  to  whom  continued  life  may 
bring  reverses  as  yet  unknown,  and  to  whom 
a  fall,  if  it  came,  would  be  most  tremendous 
in  its  consequences.  And  surely,  to  a 
man  of  spirit,  the  degradation  of  cowardice 
must  be  immeasurably  more  grievous  than 
the  unfelt  death  which  strikes  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  strength  and  patriotism! 

"Comfort,  therefore,  not  condolence,  is 
what  I  have  to  offer  to  the  parents  of  the 
dead  who  may  be  here.  Numberless  are 
the  chances  to  which,  as  they  know,  the 
life  of  man  is  subject;  but  fortunate  indeed 
are  they  who  draw  for  their  lot  a  death 
so  glorious  as  that  which  has  caused  your 
mourning,  and  to  whom  life  has  been  so 
exactly  measured  as  to  terminate  in  the 
happiness  in  which  it  has  been  passed. 
Still  I  know  that  this  is  a  hard  saying, 
especially  when  those  are  in  question  of 
Whom  you  will  constantly  be  reminded  by 


seeing  in  the  homes  of  others  blessings  of 
which  once  you  also  boasted:  for  grief  is 
felt  not  so  much  for  the  want  of  what  we 
have  never  known,  as  for  the  loss  of  that 
to  which  we  have  been  long  accustomed. 
Yet  you  who  are  still  of  an  age  to  beget 
children  must  bear  up  in  the  hope  of  hav- 
ing others  in  their  stead;  not  only  will  they 
help  you  to  forget  those  whom  you  have 
lost,  but  will  be  to  the  state  at  once  a 
reinforcement  and  a  security;  for  never 
can  a  fair  or  just  policy  be  expected  of  the 
citizen  who  does  not,  like  his  fellows, 
bring  to  the  decision  the  interests  and 
apprehensions  of  a  father.  While  those 
of  you  who  have  passed  your  prime  must 
congratulate  yourselves  with  the  thought 
that  the  best  part  of  your  life  was  fortu- 
nate, and  that  the  brief  span  that  remains 
will  be  cheered  by  the  fame  of  the  de- 
parted. For  it  is  only  the  love  of  honor 
that  never  grows  old;  and  honor  it  is,  not 
gain,  as  some  would  have  it,  that  rejoices 
the  heart  of  age  and  helplessness. 

"Turning  to  the  sons  or  brothers  of  the 
dead,  I  see  an  arduous  struggle  before  you. 
When  a  man  is  gone,  all  are  wont  to  praise 
him,  and  should  your  merit  be  ever  so 
transcendent,  you  will  still  find  it  difficult 
not  merely  to  overtake,  but  even  to  ap- 
proach their  renown.  The  living  have 
envy  to  contend  with,  while  those  who 
are  no  longer  in  our  path  are  honored  with 
a  goodwill  into  which  rivalry  does  not 
enter.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  must  say 
anything  on  the  subject  of  female  excel- 
lence to  those  of  you  who  will  now  be  in 
widowhood,  it  will  be  all  comprised  hi  this 
brief  exhortation.  Great  will  be  your 
glory  in  not  falling  short  of  your  natural 
character;  and  greatest  will  be  hers  who  is 
least  talked  of  among  the  men  whether 
for  good  or  for  bad. 

"  My  task  is  now  finished.  I  have  per- 
formed it  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  and 
in  word,  at  least,  the  requirements  of  the 
law  are  now  satisfied.  If  deeds  be  in 
question,  those  who  are  here  interred 
have  received  part  of  their  honors  already, 
and  for  the  rest,  their  children  will  be 
brought  up  till  manhood  at  the  public 
expense:  the  state  thus  offers  a  valuable 


246 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


prize,  as  the  garland  of  victory  in  this  race 
of  valor,  for  the  reward  both  of  those  who 
have  fallen  and  their  survivors.  And 
where  the  rewards  for  merit  are  greatest, 
there  are  found  the  best  citizens. 

"And  now  that  you  have  brought  to  a 
close  your  lamentations  for  your  relatives, 
you  may  depart." 

THE  CORCYR^EAN  REVOLUTION 

THE  Peloponnesians  accordingly  at  once 
set  off  in  haste  by  night  for  home,  coasting 
along  shore;  and  hauling  their  ships  across 
the  Isthmus  of  Leucas,  in  order  not  to  be 
seen  doubling  it,  so  departed.  The  Cor- 
cyraeans,  made  aware  of  the  approach  of 
the  Athenian  fleet  and  of  the  departure  of 
the  enemy,  brought  the  Messenians  from 
outside  the  walls  into  the  town,  and  ordered 
the  fleet  which  they  had  manned  to  sail 
round  into  the  Hyllaic  harbor;  and  while 
it  was  so  doing,  slew  such  of  their  enemies 
as  they  laid  hands  on,  dispatching  after- 
wards as  they  landed  them,  those  whom 
they  had  persuaded  to  go  on  board  the 
ships.  Next  they  went  to  the  sanctuary 
of  Hera  and  persuaded  about  fifty  men 
to  take  their  trial,  and  condemned  them 
all  to  death.  The  mass  of  the  suppliants 
who  had  refused  to  do  so,  on  seeing  what 
was  taking  place,  slew  each  other  there  in 
the  consecrated  ground;  while  some  hanged 
themselves  upon  the  trees,  and  others 
destroyed  themselves  as  they  were  sever- 
ally able.  During  seven  days  that  Eury- 
medon  stayed  with  his  sixty  ships,  the 
Corcyraeans  were  engaged  in  butchering 
those  of  their  fellow-citizens  whom  they 
regarded  as  their  enemies:  and  although 
the  crime  imputed  was  that  of  attempting 
to  put  down  the  democracy,  some  were 
slain  also  for  private  hatred,  others  by 
their  debtors  because  of  the  monies  owed 
to  them.  Death  thus  raged  in  every 
shape;  and,  as  usually  happens  at  such 
times,  there  was  no  length  to  which  vio- 
lence did  not  go;  sons  were  killed  by  their 
fathers,  and  suppliants  dragged  from  the 
altar  or  slain  upon  it;  while  some  were 
even  walled  up  in  the  temple  of  Dionysus 
and  died  there. 


So  bloody  was  the  march  of  the  revolu- 
tion, and  the  impression  which  it  made  was 
the  greater  as  it  was  one  of  the  first  to 
occur.  Later  on,  one  may  say,  the  whole 
Hellenic  world  was  convulsed;  struggles 
being  everywhere  made  by  the  popular 
chiefs  to  bring  in  the  Athenians,  and  by 
the  oligarchs  to  introduce  the  Lacedae« 
monians.  In  peace  there  would  have  beer, 
neither  the  pretext  nor  the  wish  to  make 
such  an  invitation;  but  in  war,  with  ail 
alliance  always  at  the  command  of  eithe: 
faction  for  the  hurt  of  their  adversaries  an  1 
their  own  corresponding  advantage,  op 
portunities  for  bringing  in  the  foreigner 
were  never  wanting  to  the  revolutionary 
parties.  The  sufferings  which  revolutior 
entailed  upon  the  cities  were  many  and 
terrible,  such  as  have  occurred  and  always 
will  occur,  as  long  as  the  nature  of  mankind 
remains  the  same;  though  in  a  severer 
or  milder  form,  and  varying  in  their  symp- 
toms, according  to  the  variety  of  the 
particular  cases.  In  peace  and  pros- 
perity states  and  individuals  have  better 
sentiments,  because  they  do  not  find  them- 
selves suddenly  confronted  with  imperious 
necessities;  but  war  takes  away  the  easy 
supply  of  daily  wants,  and  so  proves  a 
rough  master,  that  brings  most  men's 
characters  to  a  level  with  their  fortunes. 
Revolution  thus  ran  its  course  from  city 
to  city,  and  the  places  which  it  arrived 
at  last,  from  having  heard  what  had  been 
done  before,  carried  to  a  still  greater  excess 
the  refinement  of  their  inventions,  as  mani- 
fested in  the  cunning  of  their  enterprises 
and  the  atrocity  of  their  reprisals.  Words 
had  to  change  their  ordinary  meaning  and 
to  take  that  which  was  now  given  them. 
Reckless  audacity  came  to  be  considered 
the  courage  of  a  loyal  ally;  prudent  hesita- 
tion, specious  cowardice;  moderation  was 
held  to  be  a  cloak  for  unmanliness;  ability 
to  see  all  sides  of  a  question,  inaptness  to 
act  on  any.  Frantic  violence  became  the 
attribute  of  manliness;  cautious  plotting, 
a  justifiable  means  of  self-defence.  The 
advocate  of  extreme  measures  was  always 
trustworthy;  his  opponent  a  man  to  be 
suspected.  To  succeed  in  a  plot  was  to 
have  a  shrewd  head,  to  divine  a  plot  a  still 


HISTORY 


shrewder;  but  to  try  to  provide  against 
having  to  do  either  was  to  break  up  your 
party  and  to  be  afraid  of  your  adversaries. 
In  fine,  to  forestall  an  intending  criminal, 
or  to  suggest  the  idea  of  a  crime  where  it 
was  wanting,  was  equally  commended, 
until  even  blood  became  a  weaker  tie 
than  party,  from  the  superior  readiness  of 
those  united  by  the  latter  to  dare  every- 
thing without  reserve;  for  such  associations 
had  not  in  view  the  blessings  derivable 
from  established  institutions  but  were 
formed  by  ambition  for  their  overthrow; 
and  the  confidence  of  their  members  in 
each  other  rested  less  on  any  religious 
sanction  than  upon  complicity  hi  crime. 
The  fair  proposals  of  an  adversary  were 
met  with  jealous  precautions  by  the 
stronger  of  the  two,  and  not  with  a  gener- 
ous confidence.  Revenge  also  was  held 
of  more  account  than  self-preservation. 
Oaths  of  reconciliation,  being  only  prof- 
fered on  either  side  to  meet  an  immediate 
difficulty,  only  held  good  so  long  as  no 
other  weapon  was  at  hand;  but  when 
opportunity  offered,  he  who  first  ventured 
to  seize  it  and  to  take  his  enemy  off  his 
guard,  thought  this  perfidious  vengeance 
sweeter  than  an  open  one,  since,  considera- 
'  tions  of  safety  apart,  success  by  treachery 
won  him  the  palm  of  superior  intelligence. 
Indeed  it  is  generally  the  case  that  men 
are  readier  to  call  rogues  clever  than  sim- 
pletons honest,  and  are  as  ashamed  of 
being  the  second  as  they  are  proud  of  being 
the  first.  The  cause  of  all  these  evils 
was  the  lust  for  power  arising  from  greed 
and  ambition;  and  from  these  passions 
proceeded  the  violence  of  parties  once 
engaged  in  contention.  The  leaders  in  the 
cities,  each  provided  with  the  fairest  pro- 
fessions, on  the  one  side  witi  the  cry  of 
political  equality  of  the  people,  on  the 
other  of  a  moderate  aristocracy,  sought 
prizes  for  themselves  in  those  public 
interests  which  they  pretended  to  cherish, 
and,  recoiling  from  no  means  in  their 
struggles  for  ascendancy,  engaged  in  the 
direst  excesses;  hi  their  acts  of  vengeance 
they  went  to  even  greater  lengths,  not 
stopping  at  what  justice  or  the  good  of 
\  he  state  demanded,  but  making  the  party 


caprice  of  the  moment  their  only  standard, 
and  invoking  with  equal  readiness  the 
condemnation  of  an  unjust  verdict  or  the 
authority  of  the  strong  arm  to  glut  the 
animosities  of  the  hour.  Thus  religion 
was  in  honor  with  neither  party;  but  the 
use  of  fair  phrases  to  arrive  at  guilty  ends 
was  hi  high  reputation.  Meanwhile  the 
moderate  part  of  the  citizens  perished  be- 
tween the  two,  either  for  not  joining  hi 
the  quarrel,  or  because  envy  would  not 
suffer  them  to  escape. 

Thus  every  form  of  iniquity  took  root  in 
the  Hellenic  countries  by  reason  of  the 
troubles.  The  ancient  simplicity  into 
which  honor  so  largely  entered  was  laughed 
down  and  disappeared;  and  society  be- 
came divided  into  camps  hi  which  no  man 
trusted  his  fellow.  To  put  an  end  to 
this,  there  was  neither  promise  to  be  de- 
pended upon,  nor  oath  that  could  com- 
mand respect;  but  all  parties  dwelling 
rather  in  their  calculation  upon  the  hope- 
lessness of  a  permanent  state  of  things, 
were  more  intent  upon  self-defence  than 
capable  of  confidence.  In  this  contest 
the  blunter  wits  were  most  successful. 
Apprehensive  of  their  own  deficiencies  and 
of  the  cleverness  of  their  antagonists,  they 
feared  to  be  worsted  in  debate  and  to  be 
surprised  by  the  combinations  of  their 
more  versatile  opponents,  and  so  at  once 
boldly  had  recourse  to  action:  while  their 
adversaries,  arrogantly  thinking  that  they 
should  know  in  tune,  and  that  it  was  un- 
necessary to  secure  by  action  what  policy 
afforded,  often  fell  victims  to  their  want 
of  precaution. 

Meanwhile  Corcyra  gave  the  first  ex- 
ample of  most  of  the  crimes  alluded  to;  of 
the  reprisals  exacted  by  the  governed  who 
had  never  experienced  equitable  treatment 
or  indeed  aught  but  insolence  from  their 
rulers — wher  their  hour  came;  of  the  ini- 
quitous resolves  of  those  who  desired  to  get 
rid  of  their  accustomed  poverty,  and 
ardently  coveted  their  neighbors'  goods; 
and  lastly,  of  the  savage  and  pitiless  ex- 
cesses into  which  men  who  had  begun 
the  struggle  not  in  a  class  but  hi  a  party 
spirit,  were  hurried  by  their  ungovernable 
passions.  In  the  confusion  into  which  life 


248 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


was  now  thrown  in  the  cities,  human  na- 
ture, always  rebelling  against  the  law  and 
now  its  master,  gladly  showed  itself  un- 
governed  in  passion,  above  respect  for 
justice,  and  the  enemy  of  all  superiority; 
since  revenge  would  not  have  been  set 
above  religion,  and  gain  above  justice, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  fatal  power  of  envy. 


Indeed  men  too  often  take  upon  themselves 
in  the  prosecution  of  their  revenge  to  set 
the  example  of  doing  away  with  those 
general  laws  to  which  all  alike  can  look 
for  salvation  in  adversity,  instead  of 
allowing  them  to  subsist  against  the 
day  of  danger  when  their  aid  may  be 
required. 


TACITUS  (ss?-ioo?  A.  D.) 

Tacitus  was  the  chief  historian  of  the  Roman  Empire  and  one  of  the  most  important  of  all  interpre- 
ters of  history.  The  Annals,  from  which  this  selection  is  taken,  embraces  a  history  of  the  period  from 
the  accession  of  Tiberius  to  the  death  of  Nero  (14-68  A.  D.),  comprising  a  series  of  masterly  sketches  of 
great  figures,  pictures  somber  and  powerful,  of  the  corruption  and  demoralization  of  a  great  empire. 
His  style  for  vividness,  condensation,  and  power  of  phrase,  is  unrivalled  in  Latin  literature. 

Translation  by  Arthur  Murphy. 


THE  ANNALS 
FROM  THE  "REIGN  OF  NERO" 

IN  THE  consulship  of  Caius  Laecanius  and 
Marcus  Licinius  [A.  D.  64],  Nero's  pas- 
sion for  theatrical  fame  broke  out  with  a 
degree  of  vehemence  not  to  be  resisted. 
He  had  hitherto  performed  in  private  only, 
during  the  sports  of  the  Roman  youth, 
called  the  JUVENALIA;  but,  upon  those 
occasions,  he  was  confined  to  his  own 
palace  or  his  gardens;  a  sphere  too  limited 
for  such  bright  ambition,  and  so  fine  a 
voice.  He  glowed  with  impatience  to 
present  himself  before  the  public  eye,  but 
had  not  yet  the  courage  to  make  his  first 
appearance  at  Rome.  Naples  was  deemed 
a  Greek  city,  and,  for  that  reason,  a  proper 
place  to  begin  his  career  of  glory.  With 
the  laurels  which  he  was  there  to  acquire, 
he  might  pass  over  into  Greece,  and  after 
gaining,  by  victory  in  song,  the  glorious 
crown  which  antiquity  considered  as  a 
sacred  prize,  he  might  return  to  Rome, 
with  his  honors  blooming  round  him,  and 
by  his  celebrity  inflame  the  curiosity  of 
the  populace.  With  this  idea  he  pursued 
his  plan.  The  theater  at  Naples  was 
crowded  with  spectators.  Not  only  the 
inhabitants  of  the  city,  but  a  prodigious 
multitude  from  all  the  municipal  towns 
and  colonies  in  the  neighborhood,  flocked 
together,  attracted  by  the  novelty  of  a 
spectacle  so  very  extraordinary.  All  who 
followed  the  prince,  to  pay  their  court,  or 


as  persons  belonging  to  his  train,  attended 
on  the  occasion.  The  menial  servants,  and 
even  the  common  soldiers,  were  admitted 
to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  day. 

The  theater,  of  course,  was  crowded. 
An  accident  happened,  which  men  in 
general  considered  as  an  evil  omen;  with 
the  emperor  it  passed  for  a  certain  sign  of 
the  favor  and  protection  of  the  gods.  As 
soon  as  the  audience  dispersed,  the  theater 
tumbled  to  pieces.  No  other  mischief 
followed.  Nero  seized  the  opportunity  to 
compose  hymns  of  gratitude.  He  sung 
them  himself,  celebrating  with  melodious 
airs  his  happy  escape  from  the  ruin.  Be- 
ing now  determined  to  cross  the  Adriatic, 
he  stopped  at  Beneventum.  At  that 
place  Vatinius  entertained  him  with  a  show 
of  gladiators.  Of  all  the  detestable  char- 
acters that  disgraced  the  court  of  Nero, 
this  man  was  the  most  pernicious.  He 
was  bred  up  in  a  shoemaker's  stall.  De- 
formed in  his  person,  he  possessed  a  vein 
of  ribaldry  and  vulgar  humor,  which 
qualified  him  to  succeed  as  buffoon.  In 
the  character  of  a  jester  he  recommended 
himself  to  notice,  but  soon  forsook  his 
scurrility  for  the  trade  of  an  informer; 
and  having  by  the  ruin  of  the  worthiest 
citizens  arrived  at  eminence  in  guilt,  he 
rose  to  wealth  and  power,  the  most  dan- 
gerous miscreant  of  that  evil  period! 

Nero  was  a  constant  spectator  of  the 
sports  exhibited  at  Beneventum;  but  eveii 
amidst  his  diversions  his  heart  knew  no 


HISTORY 


249 


pause  from  cruelty.  He  compelled  Tor- 
quatus  Silanus  to  put  an  end  to  his  life, 
for  no  other  reason,  than  because  he  united 
to  the  splendor  of  the  Junian  family  the 
honor  of  being  great-grandson  to  Augustus. 
The  prosecutors,  suborned  for  the  busi- 
ness, alleged  against  him,  that,  having 
prodigally  wasted  his  fortune  in  gifts  and 
largesses,  he  had  no  resource  left  but  war 
and  civil  commotion.  With  that  design 
he  retained  about  his  person  men  of  rank 
and  distinction,  employed  in  various 
offices:  he  had  his  secretaries,  his  treas- 
urers, and  paymasters,  all  hi  the  style  of 
imperial  dignity,  even  then  anticipating 
what  his  ambition  aimed  at.  This  charge 
being  made  in  form,  such  of  his  freedmen 
as  were  known  to  be  in  the  confidence  of 
their  master  were  seized,  and  loaded  with 
fetters.  Silanus  saw  that  his  doom  was 
impending,  and,  to  prevent  the  sentence 
of  condemnation,  opened  the  veins  of  both 
his  arms.  Nero,  according  to  his  custom, 
expressed  himself  in  terms  of  lenity. 
"The  guilt  of  Silanus,"  he  said, "  was  mani- 
fest: and  though,  by  an  act  of  despair,  he 
showed  that  his  crimes  admitted  no  de- 
fence, his  life  would  have  been  spared, 
had  he  thought  proper  to  trust  to  the 
clemency  of  his  judge." 

In  a  short  time  after,  Nero,  for  reasons 
not  sufficiently  explained,  resolved  to 
defer  his  expedition  into  Greece.  He 
returned  to  Rome,  cherishing  in  imagina- 
tion a  new  design  to  visit  the  eastern  na- 
tions, and  Egypt  in  particular.  This 
project  had  been  for  some  time  settled  hi 
his  mind.  He  announced  it  by  a  procla- 
mation, in  which  he  assured  the  people, 
that  his  absence  would  be  of  short  dura- 
tion, and,  in  the  interval,  the  peace  and 
good  order  of  the  commonwealth  would 
be  in  no  kind  of  danger.  For  the  success 
of  his  voyage,  he  went  to  offer  up  prayers 
in  the  capitol.  He  proceeded  thence  to 
the  temple  of  Vesta.  Being  there  seized 
with  a  sudden  tremor  in  every  joint,  aris- 
ing either  from  a  superstitious  fear  of  the 
goddess,  or  from  a  troubled  conscience, 
which  never  ceased  to  goad  and  persecute 
him,  he  renounced  his  enterprise  alto- 
gether, artfully  pretending  that  the  love 


of  his  country,  which  he  felt  warm  at  his 
heart,  was  dearer  to  him  than  all  other 
considerations.  "I  have  seen,"  he  said, 
"the  dejected  looks  of  the  people;  I 
have  heard  the  murmurs  of  complaint: 
the  idea  of  so  long  a  voyage  afflicts  the 
citizens;  and,  indeed,  how  should  it  be 
otherwise,  when  the  shortest  excursion 
I  could  make  was  always  sure  to  depress 
their  spirits?  The  sight  of  their  prince 
has,  at  all  tunes,  been  their  comfort  and 
their  best  support.  In  private  families  the 
pledges  of  natural  affection  can  soften 
the  resolutions  of  a  father,  and  mould  him 
to  their  purpose:  the  people  of  Rome  have 
the  same  ascendant  over  the  mind  of  their 
sovereign.  I  feel  their  influence:  I  yield 
to  their  wishes."  With  these  and  such 
like  expressions  he  amused  the  multitude. 
Their  love  of  public  spectacles  made  them 
eager  for  his  presence,  and,  above  all,  they 
dreaded,  if  he  left  the  capital,  a  dearth 
of  provisions.  The  senate  and  the  leading 
men  looked  on  with  indifference,  unable 
to  decide  which  was  most  to  be  dreaded, 
his  presence  in  the  city,  or  his  tyranny  at 
a  distance.  They  agreed  at  length  (as 
in  alarming  cases  fear  is  always  in  haste  to 
conclude),  that  what  happened  was  the 
worst  evil  that  could  befall  them. 

A  dreadful  calamity  followed  in  a  shor* 
time  after,  by  some  ascribed  to  chance 
and  by  others  to  the  execrable  wickedness 
of  Nero.  The  authority  of  historians 
is  on  both  sides,  and  which  preponderates 
it  is  not  easy  to  determine.  It  is,  however, 
certain,  that  of  all  the  disasters  that  ever 
befell  the  city  of  Rome  from  the  rage  of 
fire,  this  was  the  worst,  the  most  violent, 
and  destructive.  The  flame  broke  out 
in  that  part  of  the  circus  which  adjoins, 
on  one  side,  to  Mount  Palatine,  and,  on 
the  other,  to  Mount  Caelius.  It  caught 
a  number  of  shops  stored  with  combustible 
goods,  and,  gathering  force  from  the  winds, 
spread  with  rapidity  from  one  end  of  the 
circus  to  the  other.  Neither  the  thick 
walls  of  houses,  nor  the  enclosure  of  tem- 
ples, nor  any  other  building,  could  check 
the  rapid  progress  of  the  flames.  A 
dreadful  conflagration  followed.  The  level 
parts  of  the  city  were  destroyed.  The 


250 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


fire  communicated  to  the  higher  buildings, 
and,  again  laying  hold  of  inferior  places, 
spread  with  a  degree  of  velocity  that  noth- 
ing could  resist.  The  form  of  the  streets, 
long  and  narrow,  with  frequent  windings, 
and  no  regular  opening,  according  to  the 
plan  of  ancient  Rome,  contributed  to 
increase  the  mischief.  The  shrieks  and 
lamentations  of  women,  the  infirmities  of 
age,  and  the  weakness  of  the  young  and 
tender,  added  misery  to  the  dreadful 
scene.  Some  endeavored  to  provide  for 
themselves,  others  to  save  their  friends, 
in  one  part  dragging  along  the  lame  and 
impotent,  in  another  waiting  to  receive 
the  tardy,  or  expecting  relief  themselves; 
they  hurried,  they  lingered,  they  ob- 
structed one  another;  they  looked  behind, 
and  the  fire  broke  out  in  front;  they  es- 
caped from  the  flames,  and  in  their  place  of 
refuge  found  no  safety;  the  fire  raged  in 
every  quarter;  all  were  involved  hi  one 
general  conflagration. 

The  unhappy  wretches  fled  to  places 
remote,  and  thought  themselves  secure, 
but  soon  perceived  the  flames  raging 
round  them.  Which  way  to  turn,  what 
to  avoid  or  what  to  seek,  no  one  could  tell. 
They  crowded  the  streets;  they  fell  pros- 
trate on  the  ground;  they  lay  stretched  in 
the  fields,  in  consternation  and  dismay, 
resigned  to  their  fate.  Numbers  lost  their 
whole  substance,  even  the  tools  and  imple- 
ments by  which  they  gained  their  liveli- 
hood, and,  hi  that  distress,  did  not  wish 
to  survive.  Others,  wild  with  affliction 
for  their  friends  and  relations  whom  they 
could  not  save,  embraced  a  voluntary 
death,  and  perished  in  the  flames.  During 
the  whole  of  this  dismal  scene,  no  man 
dared  to  attempt  anything  that  might 
check  the  violence  of  the  dreadful  calamity. 
A  crew  of  incendiaries  stood  near  at  hand 
denouncing  vengeance  on  all  who  offered 
to  interfere.  Some  were  so  abandoned  as 
to  heap  fuel  on  the  flames.  They  threw 
hi  firebrands  and  flaming  torches,  pro- 
claiming aloud,  that  they  had  authority 
for  what  they  did.  Whether,  in  fact,  they 
had  received  such  horrible  orders,  or,  under 
that  device,  meant  to  plunder  with  greater 
licentiousness,  cannot  now  be  known. 


During  the  whole  of  this  terrible  con- 
flagration, Nero  remained  at  Antium, 
without  a  thought  of  returning  to  the  city, 
till  the  fire  approached  the  building  by 
which  he  had  communicated  the  gardens 
of  Maecenas  with  the  imperial  palace. 
All  help,  however,  was  too  late.  The 
palace,  the  contiguous  edifices,  and  every 
house  adjoining,  were  laid  in  ruins.  To 
relieve  the  unhappy  people,  wandering  in 
distress  without  a  place  of  shelter,  he 
opened  the  Field  of  Mars,  as  also  the 
magnificent  buildings  raised  by  Agrippa, 
and  even  his  own  imperial  gardens.  He 
ordered  a  number  of  sheds  to  be  throwr 
up  with  all  possible  despatch,  for  the  use 
of  the  populace.  Household  utensils  and 
all  kinds  of  necessary  implements  were 
brought  from  Ostia,  and  other  cities  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  price  of  grain  was 
reduced  to  three  sesterces.  For  acts  like 
these,  munificent  and  well-timed,  Nero 
might  hops  for  a  return  of  popular  favor; 
but  his  expectations  were  in  vain;  no  man 
was  touched  with  gratitude.  A  report 
prevailed  that,  while  the  city  was  in  a 
blaze,  Nero  went  to  his  own  theater,  and 
there,  mounting  the  stage,  sung  the  de- 
struction of  Troy,  as  a  happy  allusion  to 
the  present  misfortune. 

On  the  sixth  day  the  fire  was  subdued 
at  the  foot  of  Mount  Esquiline.  This 
was  effected  by  demolishing  a  number  of 
buildings,  and  thereby  leaving  a  void 
space,  where  for  want  of  materials  the 
flame  expired.  The  minds  of  men  had 
scarce  begun  to  recover  from  their  conster- 
nation, when  the  fire  broke  out  a  second 
time  with  no  less  fury  than  before.  This 
happened,  however,  in  a  more  open  quar- 
ter, where  fewer  lives  were  lost;  but  the 
temples  of  the  gods,  the  porticoes  and 
buildings  raised  for  the  decoration  of  the 
city,  were  levelled  to  the  ground.  The 
popular  odium  was  now  more  inflamed 
than  ever,  as  this  second  alarm  began  in 
the  house  of  Tigellinus,  formerly  the  man- 
sion of  ^Emilius.  A  suspicion  prevailed, 
that  to  build  a  new  city,  and  give  it  his 
own  name,  was  the  ambition  of  Nero.  Of 
the  fourteen  quarters,  into  which  Rome 
was  divided,  four  only  were  left  entire, 


HISTORY 


251 


three  were  reduced  to  ashes,  and  the 
remaining  seven  presented  nothing  better 
than  a  heap  of  shattered  houses,  half  in 
ruins. 

The  number  of  houses,  temples,  and 
insulated  mansions,  destroyed  by  the  fire 
cannot  be  ascertained.  But  the  most 
venerable  monuments  of  antiquity,  which 
the  worship  of  ages  had  rendered  sacred, 
were  laid  in  ruins:  amongst  these  were  the 
temple  dedicated  to  the  moon  by  Servius 
TulUus;  the  fane  and  the  great  altar  con- 
secrated by  Evander,  the  Arcadian,  to 
Hercules,  his  visitor  and  his  guest;  the 
chapel  of  Jupiter  Stater,  built  by  Romu- 
lus; the  palace  of  Numa,  and  the  temple  of 
Vesta,  with  the  tutelar  gods  of  Rome. 
With  these  were  consumed  the  trophies  of 
so  many  victories,  the  inimitable  works  of 
the  Grecian  artists,  with  the  precious 
monuments  of  literature  and  ancient 
genius,  all  at  present  remembered  by  men 
advanced  in  years,  but  irrecoverably  lost. 
Not  even  the  splendor,  with  which  the 
new  city  rose  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  old, 
could  compensate  for  that  lamented  dis- 
aster. It  did  not  escape  observation, 
that  the  fire  broke  out  on  the  fourteenth 
before  the  calends  of  July,  a  day  remark- 
able for  the  conflagration  kindled  by  the 
Senones,  when  those  Barbarians  took  the 
city  of  Rome  by  storm,  and  burnt  it  to 
the  ground.  Men  of  reflection,  who  re- 
fined on  everything  with  minute  curiosity, 
calculated  the  number  of  years,  months, 
and  days,  from  the  foundation  of  Rome  to 
the  firing  of  it  by  the  Gauls;  and  from  that 
calamity  to  the  present  they  found  the 
interval  of  time  precisely  the  same. 

Nero  did  not  blush  to  convert  to  his  own 
use  the  public  ruins  of  his  country.  He 
built  a  magnificent  palace,  in  which  the 
objects  that  excited  admiration  were 
neither  gold  nor  precious  stones.  Those 
decorations,  long  since  introduced  by 
luxury,  were  grown  stale,  and  hackneyed  to 
the  eye.  A  different  species  of  magnifi- 
cence was  now  consulted:  expansive  lakes 
and  fields  of  vast  extent  were  intermixed 
with  pleasing  variety;  woods  and  forests 
stretched  to  an  immeasurable  length, 
presenting  gloom  and  solitude  amidst 


scenes  of  open  space,  where  the  eye  wan- 
dered with  surprise  over  an  unbounded 
prospect.  This  prodigious  plan  was  car- 
ried on  under  the  direction  of  two  sur- 
veyors, whose  names  were  Severus  and 
Celer.  Bold  and  original  in  their  pro- 
jects, these  men  undertook  to  conquer 
nature,  and  to  perform  wonders  even 
beyond  the  imagination  and  the  riches 
of  the  prince.  They  promised  to  form  a 
navigable  canal  from  the  Lake  Avernus 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber.  The  experi- 
ment, like  the  genius  of  the  men,  was  bold 
and  grand;  but  it  was  to  be  carried  over  a 
long  tract  of  barren  land,  and,  in  some 
places,  through  opposing  mountains.  The 
country  round  was  parched  and  dry,  with- 
out one  humid  spot,  except  the  Pomptinian 
marsh,  from  which  water  could  be  ex- 
pected. A  scheme  so  vast  could  not  be 
accomplished  without  immoderate  labor, 
and,  if  practicable,  the  end  was  in  no 
proportion  to  the  expense  and  labor. 
But  the  prodigious  and  almost  impossible 
had  charms  for  the  enterprising  spirit 
of  Nero.  He  began  to  hew  a  passage 
through  the  hills  that  surround  the  Lake 
Avernus,  and  some  traces  of  his  deluded 
hopes  are  visible  at  this  day. 

The  ground,  which,  after  marking  out 
his  own  domain,  Nero  left  to  the  public, 
was  not  laid  out  for  the  new  city  in  a  hurry 
and  without  judgment,  as  was  the  case 
after  the  irruption  of  the  Gauls.  A  regu- 
lar plan  was  formed;  the  streets  were  made 
wide  and  long;  the  elevation  of  the  houses 
was  defined,  with  an  open  area  before  the 
doors,  and  porticoes  to  secure  and  adorn 
the  front.  The  expense  of  the  porticoes 
Nero  undertook  to  defray  out  of  his  own 
revenue.  He  promised,  besides,  as  soon 
as  the  work  was  finished,  to  clear  the 
ground,  and  leave  a  clear  space  to  every 
house,  without  any  charge  to  the  occupier. 
In  order  to  excite  a  spirit  of  industry  and 
emulation,  he  held  forth  rewards  pro- 
portioned to  the  rank  of  each  individual, 
provided  the  buildings  were  finished  in  a 
limited  time.  The  rubbish,  by  his  order, 
was  removed  to  the  marshes  of  Ostia, 
and  the  ships  that  brought  corn  up  the 
river  were  to  return  loaded  with  the  refuse 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


of  the  workmen.  Add  to  all  this,  the 
several  houses,  built  on  a  new  principle, 
were  to  be  raised  to  a  certain  elevation, 
without  beams  or  wood-work,  on  arches  of 
stone  from  the  quarries  of  Alba  or  Gabii; 
those  materials  being  impervious,  and  of 
a  nature  to  resist  the  force  of  fire.  The 
springs  of  water,  which  had  been  before 
that  time  intercepted  by  individuals  for 
their  separate  use,  were  no  longer  suffered 
to  be  diverted  from  their  channel,  but 
left  to  the  care  of  commissioners,  that  the 
public  might  be  properly  supplied,  and,  in 
case  of  fire,  have  a  reservoir  at  hand  to 
stop  the  progress  of  the  mischief. 

It  was  also  settled,  that  the  houses 
should  no  longer  be  contiguous,  with 
slight  party-walls  to  divide  them;  but 
every  house  was  to  stand  detached,  sur- 
rounded and  insulated  by  its  own  enclos- 
ure. These  regulations,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, were  of  public  utility,  and  added 
much  to  the  embellishment  of  the  new 
city.  But  still  the  old  plan  of  Rome  was 
not  without  its  advocates.  It  was  thought 
more  conducive  to  the  health  of  the  in- 
habitants. The  narrowness  of  the  streets 
and  the  elevation  of  the  buildings  served 
to  exclude  the  rays  of  the  sun;  whereas 
the  more  open  space,  having  neither  shade 
nor  shelter,  left  men  exposed  to  the  in- 
tense heat  of  the  day. 

These  several  regulations  were,  no 
doubt,  the  best  that  human  wisdom  could 
suggest.  The  next  care  was  to  propitiate 
the  gods.  The  Sibylline  books  were  con- 
sulted, and  the  consequence  was,  that 
supplications  were  decreed  to  Vulcan, 
to  Ceres,  and  Proserpine.  A  band  of 
matrons  offered  their  prayers  and  sacrifices 
to  Juno,  first  in  the  capitol,  and  next  on 
the  nearest  margin  of  the  sea,  where  they 
supplied  themselves  with  water,  to  sprinkle 
the  temple  and  the  statue  of  the  goddess. 
A  select  number  of  women,  who  had  hus- 
bands actually  living,  laid  the  deities  on 
their  sacred  beds,  and  kept  midnight  vigils 
with  the  usual  solemnity.  But  neither 
these  religious  ceremonies,  nor  the  liberal 
donations  of  the  prince  could  efface  from 
the  minds  of  men  the  prevailing  opinion, 
that  Rome  was  set  on  fire  by  his  own  or- 


ders. The  infamy  of  that  horrible  trans- 
action still  adhered  to  him.  In  order,  if 
possible,  to  remove  the  imputation,  he 
determined  to  transfer  the  guilt  to  others. 
For  this  purpose  he  punished,  with  exquis- 
ite torture,  a  race  of  men  detested  for  their 
evil  practices,  by  vulgar  appellation  com- 
monly called  Christians. 

The  name  was  derived  from  Christ, 
who  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius,  suffered  under 
Pontius  Pilate,  the  procurator  of  Judaea. 
By  that  event  the  sect,  of  which  he  was 
the  founder,  received  a  blow,  which,  for  a 
time,  checked  the  growth  of  a  dangerous 
superstition;  but  it  revived  soon  after,  and 
spread  with  recruited  vigor,  not  only  hi 
Judaea,  the  soil  that  gave  it  birth,  but  even 
in  the  city  of  Rome,  the  common  sink 
into  which  everything  infamous  and 
abominable  flows  like  a  torrent  from  all 
quarters  of  the  world.  Nero  proceeded 
with  his  usual  artifice.  He  found  a  set 
of  profligate  and  abandoned  wretches, 
who  were  induced  to  confess  themselves 
guilty,  and,  on  the  evidence  of  such  men, 
a  number  of  Christians  were  convicted, 
not  indeed,  upon  clear  evidence  of  their 
having  set  the  city  on  fire,  but  rather  on 
account  of  their  sullen  hatred  of  the  whole 
human  race.  They  were  put  to  death 
with  exquisite  cruelty,  and  to  their  suffer- 
ings Nero  added  mockery  and  derision. 
Some  were  covered  with  the  skins  of  wild 
beasts,  and  left  to  be  devoured  by  dogs; 
others  were  nailed  to  the  cross;  numbers 
were  burnt  alive;  and  many,  covered  over 
with  inflammable  matter,  were  lighted 
up,  when  the  day  declined,  to  serve  as 
torches  during  the  night. 

For  the  convenience  of  seeing  this  tragic 
spectacle,  the  emperor  lent  his  own  gar- 
dens. He  added  the  sports  of  the  circus, 
and  assisted  in  person,  sometimes  driving 
a  curricle,  and  occasionally  mixing  with 
the  rabble  in  his  coachman's  dress.  At 
length  the  cruelty  of  these  proceedings 
filled  every  breast  with  compassion.  Hu- 
manity relented  in  favor  of  the  Christians. 
The  manners  of  that  people  were,  no 
doubt,  of  a  pernicious  tendency,  and  their 
crimes  called  for  the  hand  of  justice:  but 
it  was  evident,  that  they  fell  a  sacrifice, 


HISTORY 


253 


not  for  the  public  good,  but  to  glut  the  rage 
•and  cruelty  of  one  man  only. 

Meanwhile,  to  supply  the  unbounded 
prodigality  of  the  prince,  all  Italy  was 
ravaged;  the  provinces  were  plundered; 
and  the  allies  of  Rome,  with  the  several 
places  that  enjoyed  the  title  of  free  cities, 
were  put  under  contribution.  The  very 
gods  were  taxed.  Their  temples  in  the 
city  were  rifled  of  their  treasures,  and  heaps 
of  massy  gold,  which,  through  a  series  of 
ages,  the  virtue  of  the  Roman  people, 
either  returning  thanks  for  victories,  or 
performing  their  vows  made  in  the  hour 
of  distress,  had  dedicated  to  religious  uses, 
were  now  produced  to  answer  the  de- 
mands of  riot  and  extravagance.  In 
Greece  and  Asia  rapacity  was  not  content 
with  seizing  the  votive  offerings  that 
adorned  the  temples,  but  even  the  very 
statues  of  the  gods  were  deemed  lawful 
prey.  To  carry  this  impious  robbery 
into  execution,  Acratus  and  Secundus 
Carinas  were  sent  with  a  special  com- 
mission: the  former,  one  of  Nero's  f reed- 
men,  of  a  genius  ready  for  any  black  de- 
sign: the  latter,  a  man  of  literature,  with 
the  Greek  philosophy  fluent  hi  his  mouth, 
and  not  one  virtue  at  his  heart.  It  was 
a  report  current  at  the  time,  that  Seneca, 
wishing  to  throw  from  himself  all  respon- 
sibility for  these  impious  acts,  desired 
leave  to  retire  to  some  part  of  Italy.  Not 
being  able  to  succeed  in  his  request,  he 
feigned  a  nervous  disorder,  and  never 
stirred  out  of  his  room.  If  credit  be  due 
to  some  writers,  a  dose  of  poison  was  pre- 
pared for  him  by  Cleonicus,  one  of  his 
freedmen,  by  the  instigation  of  Nero. 
The  philosopher,  however,  warned  by  the 
same  servant,  whose  courage  failed  him, 
or,  perhaps,  shielded  from  danger  by  his 
own  wary  disposition,  escaped  the  snare. 
He  lived  at  that  very  time  on  the  most 
simple  diet;  wild  apples,  that  grew  in 
the  woods,  were  his  food;  and  water  from 
the  clear  purling  stream  served  to  quench 
his  thirst. 

About  the  same  time  a  body  of  gladia- 
tors detained  in  custody  at  Praeneste, 
made  an  attempt  to  recover  their  liberty. 


The  military  guard  was  called  out,  and  the 
tumult  died  away.  The  incident,  not- 
withstanding, revived  the  memory  of 
Spartacus.  The  calamities,  that  followed 
the  daring  enterprise  of  that  adventurer, 
became  the  general  topic,  and  filled 
the  minds  of  all  with  dreadful  apprehen- 
sions. Such  is  the  genius  of  the  populace, 
ever  prone  to  sudden  innovations,  yet 
terrified  at  the  approach  of  danger.  In  a 
few  days  after,  advice  was  received,  that 
the  fleet  had  suffered  by  a  violent  storm. 
This  was  not  an  event  of  war,  for  there 
never  was  a  period  of  such  profound  tran- 
quillity; but  Nero  had  ordered  the  ships, 
on  a  stated  day,  to  assemble  on  the  coast 
of  Campania.  The  dangers  of  the  sea 
never  entered  into  his  consideration.  His 
orders  were  peremptory.  The  pilots,  to 
mark  their  zeal,  set  sail,  in  tempestuous 
weather  from  the  port  of  Formiae.  While 
they  were  endeavoring  to  double  the  cape 
of  Misenum,  a  squall  of  wind  from  the 
south  threw  them  on  the  coast  of  Cuma, 
where  a  number  of  the  larger  galleys,  and 
almost  all  the  smaller  vessels,  were  dashed 
to  pieces. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  year  omens  and 
prodigies  filled  the  minds  of  the  people 
with  apprehensions  of  impending  mischief. 
Such  dreadful  peals  of  thunder  were  never 
known.  A  comet  appeared,  and  that 
phenomenon  was  a  certain  prelude  to 
some  bloody  act  to  be  committed  by  Nero. 
Monstrous  births,  such  as  men  and  beasts 
with  double  heads,  were  seen  in  the  streets 
and  public  ways;  and  in  the  midst  of 
sacrifices,  which  required  victims  big  with 
young,  the  like  conceptions  fell  from  the 
entrails  of  animals  slain  at  the  altar.  In 
the  territory  of  Placentia,  a  calf  was 
dropped  with  its  head  growing  at  the  ex- 
treme part  of  the  leg.  The  construction 
of  the  soothsayers  was,  that  another  head 
was  preparing  for  the  government  of  the 
world,  but  would  prove  weak,  insufficient, 
and  be  soon  detected,  like  the  monstrous 
productions,  which  did  not  rest  concealed 
in  the  womb,  but  came  before  their  time, 
and  lay  exposed  to  public  view  near  the 
high  road. 


=54 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


EDWARD  GIBBON  (1737-1794) 

"The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire"  (1776),  from  which  this  selection  was  taken,  has 
V>een  pronounced  the  only  eighteenth  century  history  that  has  withstood  nineteenth  century  criticism, 
and  it  still  remains  the  classic  example  of  a  monumental  history  that  is  at  the  same  time  a  work 
of  literary  art.  The  following  selection  is  characteristic  of  the  author's  power  of  painting  a  great 


scene. 


CHAPTER  LXVHI 


THE  SIEGE,  ASSAULT,  AND  FINAL  CON- 
QUEST or  CONSTANTINOPLE  BY  THE 
TURKS  IN  1453 

THE  Greeks  and  the  Turks  passed  an 
anxious  and  sleepless  winter:  the  former 
were  kept  awake  by  their  fears,  the  latter 
by  their  hopes;  both  by  the  preparations 
of  defence  and  attack;  and  the  two  em- 
perors, who  had  the  most  to  lose  or  to 
gain,  were  the  most  deeply  affected  by  the 
national  sentiment.  In  Mahomet,  that 
sentiment  was  inflamed  by  the  ardor 
of  his  youth  and  temper:  he  amused  his 
leisure  with  building  at  Adrianople  the 
lofty  palace  of  Jehan  Numa  (the  watch- 
tower  of  the  world);  but  his  serious 
thoughts  were  irrevocably  bent  on  the 
conquest  of  the  city  of  Caesar.  At  the 
dead  of  night,  about  the  second  watch, 
he  started  from  his  bed,  and  commanded 
the  instant  attendance  of  his  prune  vizier. 
The  message,  the  hour,  the  prince,  and  his 
own  situation,  alarmed  the  guilty  con- 
science of  Calil  Basha;  who  had  possessed 
the  confidence,  and  advised  the  restora- 
tion, of  Amurath.  On  the  accession  of  the 
son,  the  vizier  was  confirmed  in  his  office 
and  the  appearances  of  favor;  but  the 
veteran  statesman  was  not  insensible 
that  he  trod  on  a  thin  and  slippery  ice, 
which  might  break  under  his  footsteps, 
and  plunge  him  in  the  abyss.  His  friend- 
ship for  the  Christians,  which  might  be 
innocent  under  the  late  reign,  had  stigma- 
tized him  with  the  name  of  Gabour- 
Ortachi,  or  foster-brother  of  the  infidels; 
and  his  avarice  entertained  a  venal  and 
treasonable  correspondence,  which  was 
detected  and  punished  after  the  conclusion 
of  the  war.  On  receiving  the  royal  man- 
date, he  embraced,  perhaps  for  the  last 


tune,  his  wife  and  children;  filled  a  cup 
with  pieces  of  gold,  hastened  to  the  palace, 
adored  the  sultan,  and  offered,  according 
to  the  Oriental  custom,  the  slight  tribute 
of  his  duty  and  gratitude.  "It  is  not  my 
wish,"  .said  Mahomet,  "to  resume  my 
gifts,  but  rather  to  heap  and  multiply 
them  on  thy  head.  In  my  turn  I  ask  a 
present  far  more  valuable  and  important; 
—Constantinople."  As  soon  as  the  vizier 
had  recovered  from  his  surprise,  "The 
same  God,"  said  he,  "who  has  already 
given  thee  so  large  a  portion  of  the  Roman 
empire,  will  not  deny  the  remnant,  and 
the  capital.  His  providence,  and  thy 
power,  assure  thy  success;  and  myself,  with 
the  rest  of  thy  faithful  slaves,  will  sacrifice 
our  lives  and  fortunes." — "Lala,"  (or 
preceptor)  continued  the  sultan,  "do  you 
see  this  pillow?  All  the  night,  in  my  agi- 
tation, I  have  pulled  it  on  one  side  and 
the  other;  I  have  risen  from  my  bed,  again 
have  I  lain  down;  yet  sleep  has  not  visited 
these  weary  eyes.  Beware  of  the  gold 
and  silver  of  the  Romans:  in  arms  we  are 
superior;  and  with  the  aid  of  God,  and 
the  prayers  of  the  prophet,  we  shall  speed- 
ily become  masters  of  Constantinople." 
To  sound  the  disposition  of  his  soldiers, 
he  often  wandered  through  the  streets 
alone,  and  in  disguise;  and  it  was  fatal 
to  discover  the  sultan,  when  he  wished  to 
escape  from  the  vulgar  eye.  His  hours 
were  spent  in  delineating  the  plan  of  the 
hostile  city;  in  debating  with  his  generals 
and  engineers,  on  what  spot  he  should  erect 
his  batteries;  on  which  side  he  should  as- 
sault the  walls;  where  he  should  spring 
his  mines;  to  what  place  he  should  apply 
his  scaling-ladders:  and  the  exercises  of  the 
day  repeated  and  proved  the  lucubrations 
of  the  night. 

Among  the  implements  of  destruction/ 


HISTORY 


255 


he  studied  with  peculiar  care  the  recent 
and  tremendous  discovery  of  the  Lathis; 
and  his  artillery  surpassed  whatever  had 
yet  appeared  in  the  world.  A  founder  of 
cannon,  a  Dane  [Dacian]  or  Hungarian, 
who  had  been  almost  starved  in  the  Greek 
service,  deserted  to  the  Moslems,  and  was 
liberally  entertained  by  the  Turkish  sultan. 
Mahomet  was  satisfied  with  the  answer  to 
his  first  question,  which  he  eagerly  pressed 
on  the  artist.  "Am  I  able  to  cast  a  cannon 
capable  of  throwing  a  ball  or  stone  of 
sufficient  size  to  batter  the  walls  of  Con- 
stantinople? I  am  not  ignorant  of  their 
strength;  but  were  they  more  solid  than 
those  of  Babylon,  I  could  oppose  an  engine 
of  superior  power:  the  position  and  man- 
agement of  that  engine  must  be  left  to 
your  engineers."  On  this  assurance,  a 
foundry  was  established  at  Adrianople: 
the  metal  was  prepared;  and  at  the 
3nd  of  three  months,  Urban  produced  a 
piece  of  brass  ordnance  of  stupendous, 
and  almost  incredible  magnitude;  a  meas- 
ure of  twelve  palms  is  assigned  to  the  bore; 
and  the  stone  bullet  weighed  above  six 
hundred  pounds.  A  vacant  place  before 
the  new  palace  was  chosen  for  che  first 
experiment;  but  to  prevent  the  sudden 
and  mischievous  effects  of  astonishment 
and  fear,  a  proclamation  was  issued,  that 
the  cannon  would  be  discharged  the  en- 
suing day.  The  explosion  was  felt  or 
heard  hi  a  circuit  of  a  hundred  furlongs: 
the  ball,  by  the  force  of  gunpowder,  was 
driven  above  a  mile ;  and  on  the  spot  where 
it  fell,  it  buried  itself  a  fathom  deep  in  the 
ground.  For  the  conveyance  of  this 
destructive  engine,  a  frame  or  carriage  of 
thirty  wagons  was  linked  together  and 
drawn  along  by  a  team  of  sixty  oxen:  two 
hundred  men  on  both  sides  were  stationed, 
to  poise  and  support  the  rolling  weight; 
two  hundred  and  fifty  workmen  marched 
before  to  smooth  the  way  and  repair  the 
bridges;  and  near  two  months  were  em- 
ployed in  a  laborious  journey  of  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles.  A  lively  philosopher 
derides  on  this  occasion  the  credulity  of 
the  Greeks,  and  observes,  with  much  rea- 
son, that  we  should  always  distrust  the 
exaggerations  of  a  vanquished  people. 


He  calculates,  that  a  ball,  even  of  two 
hundred  pounds,  would  require  a  charge 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  powder; 
and  that  the  stroke  would  be  feeble  and 
impotent,  since  not  a  fifteenth  part  of  the 
mass  could  be  inflamed  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. A  stranger  as  I  am  to  the  art  of 
destruction,  I  can  discern  that  the  modern 
improvements  of  artillery  prefer  the  num- 
ber of  pieces  to  the  weight  of  metal;  the 
quickness  of  the  fire  to  the  sound,  or  even 
the  consequence,  of  a  single  explosion. 
Yet  I  dare  not  reject  the  positive  and  unani- 
mous evidence  of  contemporary  writers; 
nor  can  it  seem  improbable,  that  the  first 
artists,  in  their  rude  and  ambitious  efforts, 
should  have  transgressed  the  standard 
of  moderation.  A  Turkish  cannon,  more 
enormous  than  that  of  Mahomet,  still 
guards  the  entrance  of  the  Dardanelles; 
and  if  the  use  be  inconvenient,  it  has  been 
found  on  a  late  trial  that  the  effect  was  far 
from  contemptible.  A  stone  bullet  of 
eleven  hundred  pounds'  weight  was  once 
discharged  with  three  hundred  and  thirty 
pounds  of  powder:  at  the  distance  of  six 
hundred  yards  it  shivered  into  three  rocky 
fragments;  traversed  the  strait;  and,  leav- 
ing the  waters  in  a  foam,  again  rose  and 
bounded  against  the  opposite  hill. 

While  Mahomet  threatened  the  capital 
of  the  East,  the  Greek  emperor  implored 
with  fervent  prayers  the  assistance  of 
earth  and  heaven.  But  the  invisible 
powers  were  deaf  to  his  supplications;  and 
Christendom  beheld  with  indifference  the 
fall  of  Constantinople,  while  she  derived 
at  least  some  promise  of  supply  from  the 
jealous  and  temporal  policy  of  the  sultan 
of  Egypt.  Some  states  were  too  weak, 
and  others  too  remote;  by  some  the  danger 
was  considered  as  imaginary,  by  others 
as  inevitable:  the  Western  princes  were 
involved  in  their  endless  and  domestic 
quarrels;  and  the  Roman  pontiff  was  exas- 
perated by  the  falsehood  or  obstinacy  of 
the  Greeks.  Instead  of  employing  in  their 
favor  the  arms  and  treasures  of  Italy, 
Nicholas  the  Fifth  had  foretold  their 
approaching  ruin;  and  his  honor  was 
engaged  hi  the  accomplishment  of  his 
prophecy.  Perhaps  he  was  softened  by 


256 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


the  last  extremity  of  their  distress;  but  his 
compassion  was  tardy;  his  efforts  were 
fahit  and  unavailing;  and  Constantinople 
had  fallen  before  the  squadrons  of  Genoa 
and  Venice  could  sail  from  their  harbors. 
Even  the  princes  of  the  Morea  and  of  the 
Greek  islands  affected  a  cold  neutrality: 
the  Genoese  colony  of  Galata  negotiated 
a  private  treaty;  and  the  sultan  indulged 
them  in  the  delusive  hope  that  by  his 
clemency  they  might  survive  the  ruin  of 
the  empire.  A  plebeian  crowd,  and  some 
Byzantine  nobles,  basely  withdrew  from 
the  danger  of  their  country;  and  the  avarice 
of  the  rich  denied  the  emperor,  and 
reserved  for  the  Turks,  the  secret  treasures 
which  might  have  raised  hi  their  defence 
whole  armies  of  mercenaries.  The  in- 
digent and  solitary  prince  prepared,  how- 
ever, to  sustain  his  formidable  adversary; 
but  if  his  courage  were  equal  to  the  peril, 
his  strength  was  inadequate  to  the  contest. 
In  the  beginning  of  the  spring,  the  Turkish 
vanguard  swept  the  towns  and  villages 
as  far  as  the  gates  of  Constantinople:  sub- 
mission was  spared  and  protected;  what- 
ever presumed  to  resist  was  exterminated 
with  fire  and  sword.  The  Greek  places 
on  the  Black  Sea,  Mesembria,  Acheloum, 
and  Bizon,  surrendered  on  the  first  sum- 
mons; Selybria  alone  deserved  the  honors 
of  a  siege  or  blockade;  and  the  bold  in- 
habitants, while  they  were  invested  by 
land,  launched  their  boats,  pillaged  the 
opposite  coast  of  Cyzicus,  and  sold  their 
captives  in  the  public  market.  But  on 
the  approach  of  Mahomet  himself  all  was 
silent  and  prostrate:  he  first  halted  at 
the  distance  of  five  miles;  and  from  thence 
advancing  in  battle  array,  planted  before 
the  gate  of  St.  Romanus  the  Imperial 
standard;  and  on  the  sixth  day  of  April 
formed  the  memorable  siege  of  Con- 
stantinople. 

The  troops  of  Asia  and  Europe  extended 
on  the  right  and  left  from  the  Propontis 
to  the  harbor;  the  Janizaries  hi  the  front 
were  stationed  before  the  sultan's  tent;  the 
Ottoman  line  was  covered  by  a  deep  in- 
trenchment;  and  a  subordinate  army  en- 
closed the  suburb  of  Galata,  and  watched 
the  doubtful  faith  of  the  Genoese.  The 


inquisitive  Philelphus,  who  resided  in 
Greece  about  thirty  years  before  the  siege, 
is  confident  that  all  the  Turkish  forces 
of  any  name  or  value  could  not  exceed 
the  number  of  sixty  thousand  horse  and 
twenty  thousand  foot;  and  he  upbraids 
the  pusillanimity  of  the  nations,  who  had 
tamely  yielded  to  a  handful  of  Barbarians. 
Such  indeed  might  be  the  regular  establish- 
ment of  the  Capiculi,  the  troops  of  the 
Porte  who  marched  with  the  prince,  and 
were  paid  from  his  royal  treasury.  But 
the  bashaws,  in  their  respective  govern- 
ments, maintained  or  levied  a  provincial 
militia;  many  lands  were  held  by  a  military 
tenure;  many  volunteers  were  attracted 
by  the  hope  of  spoil;  and  the  sound  of  the 
holy  trumpet  invited  a  swarm  of  hungry 
and  fearless  fanatics,  who  might  contribute 
at  least  to  multiply  the  terrors,  and  in  a 
first  attack  to  blunt  the  swords,  of  the 
Christians.  The  whole  mass  of  the  Turk- 
ish powers  is  magnified  by  Ducas,  Chal- 
condyles,  and  Leonard  of  Chios,  to  the 
amount  of  three  or  four  hundred  thousand 
men;  but  Phranza  was  a  less  remote  ana 
more  accurate  judge;  and  his  precise 
definition  of  two  hundred  and  fifty-eight 
thousand  does  not  exceed  the  measure  of 
experience  and  probability.  The  navy 
of  the  besiegers  was  less  formidable:  the 
Propontis  was  overspread  with  three  hun- 
dred and  twenty  sail;  but  of  these  no  more 
than  eighteen  could  be  rated  as  galleys  of 
war;  and  the  far  greater  part  must  be 
degraded  to  the  condition  of  store-ships 
and  transports,  which  poured  into  the 
camp  fresh  supplies  of  men,  ammunition, 
and  provisions.  In  her  last  decay,  Con- 
stantinople was  still  peopled  with  more 
than  a  hundred  thousand  inhabitants;  but 
these  numbers  are  found  in  the  accounts, 
not  of  war,  but  of  captivity;  and  they 
mostly  consisted  of  mechanics,  of  priests, 
of  women,  and  of  men  devoid  of  that  spirit 
which  even  women  have  sometimes  ex- 
erted for  the  common  safety.  I  can  sup- 
pose, I  could  almost  excuse,  the  reluctance 
of  subjects  to  serve  on  a  distant  frontier, 
at  the  will  of  a  tyrant;  but  the  man  who 
dares  not  expose  his  life  in  the  defence  of 
his  children  and  his  property,  has  lost  in 


HISTORY 


257 


society  the  first  and  most  active  energies 
of  nature.  By  the  emperor's  command, 
a  particular  inquiry  had  been  made 
through  the  streets  and  houses,  how  many 
of  the  citizens,  or  even  of  the  monks,  were 
able  and  willing  to  bear  arms  for  their 
country.  The  lists  were  intrusted  to 
Phranza ;  and,  after  a  diligent  addition,  he 
informed  his  master,  with  grief  and  sur- 
prise, that  the  national  defence  was  re- 
duced to  four  thousand  nine  hundred  and 
seventy  Romans.  Between  Constantine 
and  his  faithful  minister  this  comfortless 
secret  was  preserved;  and  a  sufficient 
proportion  of  shields,  cross-bows,  and 
muskets,  was  distributed  from  the  arsenal 
to  the  city  bands.  They  derived  some 
accession  from  a  body  of  two  thousand 
strangers,  under  the  command  of  John 
Justiniani,  a  noble  Genoese;  a  liberal 
donative  was  advanced  to  these  auxiliaries; 
and  a  princely  recompense,  the  Isle  of 
^Lemnos,  was  promised  to  the  valor  and 
victory  of  their  chief.  A  strong  chain  was 
drawn  across  the  mouth  of  the  harbor:  it 
was  supported  by  some  Greek  and  Italian 
vessels  of  war  and  merchandise;  and  the 
ships  of  every  Christian  nation,  that  suc- 
cessively arrived  from  Candia  and  the 
Black  Sea,  were  detained  for  the  public 
service.  Against  the  powers  of  the  Otto- 
man empire,  a  city  of  the  extent  of  thir- 
teen, perhaps  of  sixteen,  miles  was  de- 
fended by  a  scanty  garrison  of  seven  or 
eight  thousand  soldiers.  Europe  and 
Asia  were  open  to  the  besiegers;  but  the 
strength  and  provisions  of  the  Greeks 
must  sustain  a  daily  decrease;  nor  could 
they  indulge  the  expectation  of  any  foreign 
succor  or  supply. 

The  primitive  Romans  would  have 
drawn  their  swords  in  the  resolution  of 
death  or  conquest.  The  primitive  Chris- 
tians might  have  embraced  each  other, 
and  awaited  in  patience  and  charity  the 
stroke  of  martyrdom.  But  the  Greeks  of 
Constantinople  were  animated  only  by 
the  spirit  of  religion,  and  that  spirit  was 
productive  only  of  animosity  and  discord. 
Before  his  death,  the  emperor  John  Pa- 
laeologus  had  renounced  the  unpopular 
measure  of  a  union  with  the  Latins; 


nor  was  the  idea  revived,  till  the  distress 
of  his  brother  Constantine  imposed  a  last 
trial  of  flattery  and  dissimulation.  With 
the  demand  of  temporal  aid,  his  ambassa- 
dors were  instructed  to  mingle  the  assur- 
ance of  spiritual  obedience:  his  neglect 
of  the  church  was  excused  by  the  urgent 
cares  of  the  state;  and  his  orthodox  wishes 
solicited  the  presence  of  a  Roman  legate. 
The  Vatican  had  been  too  often  deluded; 
yet  the  signs  of  repentance  could  not  de- 
cently be  overlooked;  a  legate  was  more 
easily  granted  than  an  army;  and  about 
six  months  before  the  final  destruction, 
the  cardinal  Isidore  of  Russia  appeared 
in  that  character  with  a  retinue  of  priests 
and  soldiers.  The  emperor  saluted  him 
as  a  friend  and  father;  respectfully  listened 
to  his  public  and  private  sermons;  and 
with  the  most  obsequious  of  the  clergy  and 
laymen  subscribed  the  act  of  union,  as  it 
had  been  ratified  in  the  council  of  Florence. 
On  the  twelfth  of  December,  the  two  na- 
tions, in  the  church  of  St.  Sophia,  joined 
in  the  communion  of  sacrifice  and  prayer; 
and  the  names  of  the  two  pontiffs  were 
solemnly  commemorated;  the  names  of 
Nicholas  the  Fifth,  the  vicar  of  Christ, 
and  of  the  patriarch  Gregory,  who  had 
been  driven  into  exile  by  a  rebellious 
people. 

But  the  dress  and  language  of  the  Latin 
priest  who  officiated  at  the  altar  were  an 
object  of  scandal;  and  it  was  observed 
with  horror,  that  he  consecrated  a  cake 
or  wafer  of  unleavened  bread,  and  poured 
cold  water  into  the  cup  of  the  sacrament. 
A  national  historian  acknowledges  with  a 
blush,  that  none  of  his  countrymen,  not 
the  emperor  himself,  were  sincere  in  this 
occasional  conformity.  Their  hasty  and 
unconditional  submission  was  palliated 
by  a  promise  of  future  revisal;  but  the 
best,  or  the  worst,  of  their  excuses  was  the 
confession  of  their  own  perjury.  When 
they  were  pressed  by  the  reproaches  of 
their  honest  brethren,  "Have  patience," 
they  whispered,  "have  patience  till  God 
shall  have  delivered  the  city  from  the 
great  dragon  who  seeks  to  devour  us.  You 
shall  then  perceive  whether  we  are  truly 
reconciled  with  the  Azymites."  But  pa- 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


tience  is  not  the  attribute  of  zeal;  nor  can 
the  arts  of  a  court  be  adapted  to  the 
freedom  and  violence  of  popular  enthu- 
siasm. From  the  dome  of  St.  Sophia  the 
inhabitants  of  either  sex,  and  of  every 
degree,  rushed  in  crowds  to  the  cell  of  the 
monk  Gennadius,  to  consult  the  oracle  of 
the  church.  The  holy  man  was  invisible; 
entranced,  as  it  should  seem,  in  deep 
meditation,  or  divine  rapture:  but  he  had 
exposed  on  the  door  of  his  cell  a  speaking 
tablet;  and  they  successively  withdrew, 
after  reading  these  tremendous  words: 
"O  miserable  Romans,  why  will  ye  aban- 
don the  truth?  and  why,  instead  of  con- 
fiding in  God,  will  ye  put  your  trust  in 
the  Italians?  In  losing  your  faith  you 
will  lose  your  city.  Have  mercy  on  me, 

0  Lord!    I  protest  in  thy  presence  that 

1  am  innocent  of  the  crime.    O  miserable 
Romans,  consider,  pause,  and  repent.    At 
the  same  moment  that  you  renounce  the 
religion  of  your  fathers,   by  embracing 
impiety,  you  submit  to  a  foreign  servi- 
tude."   According  to  the  advice  of  Genna- 
dius, the  religious  virgins,  as  pure  as  an- 
gels, and  as  proud  as  daemons,  rejected 
the  act  of  union,  and  abjured  all  com- 
munion   with    the    present    and    future 
associates  of  the  Latins;  and  their  example 
was  applauded  and  imitated  by  the  great- 
est part  of  the  clergy  and  people.     From 
the  monastery,   the  devout  Greeks  dis- 
persed themselves  in  the  taverns;  drank 
confusion  to  the  slaves  of  the  pope;  emptied 
their  glasses  in  honor  of  the  image  of  the 
holy  Virgin;  and  besought  her  to  defend 
against  Mahomet  the  city  which  she  had 
formerly  saved  from  Chosroes  and  the 
Chagan.     In  the  double  intoxication  of 
zeal  and  wine,  they  valiantly  exclaimed, 
"What  occasion  have  we  for  succor,  or 
union,  or  Latins?    Far  from  us  be  the 
worship  of  the  Azymites!"    During  the 
winter  that  preceded  the  Turkish  con- 
quest, the  nation  was  distracted  by  this 
epidemical  frenzy;  and  the  season  of  Lent, 
the  approach  of  Easter,  instead  of  breath- 
ing charity  and  love,  served  only  to  fortify 
the  obstinacy  and  influence  of  the  zealots. 
The  confessors  scrutinized  and  alarmed 
the  conscience  of  their  votaries,  and  a 


rigorous  penance  was  imposed  on  those  who 
had  received  the  communion  from  a  priest 
who  had  given  an  express  or  tacit  consent 
to  the  union.  His  service  at  the  altar 
propagated  the  infection  to  the  mute  and 
simple  spectators  of  the  ceremony:  they 
forfeited,  by  the  impure  spectacle,  the 
virtue  of  the  sacerdotal  character;  nor 
was  it  lawful,  even  in  danger  of  sudden 
death,  to  invoke  the  assistance  of  their 
prayers  or  absolution.  No  sooner  had  the 
church  of  St.  Sophia  been  polluted  by  the 
Latin  sacrifice,  than  it  was  deserted  as  a 
Jewish  synagogue,  or  a  heathen  temple, 
by  the  clergy  and  people;  and  a  vast  and 
gloomy  silence  prevailed  in  that  venerable 
dome,  which  had  so  often  smoked  with  a 
cloud  of  incense,  blazed  with  innumerable 
lights,  and  resounded  with  the  voice  of 
prayer  and  thanksgiving.  The  Latins 
were  the  most  odious  of  heretics  and  infi- 
dels; and  the  first  minister  of  the  empire, 
the  great  duke,  was  heard  to  declare,  that 
he  had  rather  behold  in  Constantinople 
the  turban  of  Mahomet,  than  the  pope's 
tiara  or  a  cardinal's  hat.  A  sentiment  so 
unworthy  of  Christians  and  patriots  was 
familiar  and  fatal  to  the  Greeks:  the  em- 
peror was  deprived  of  the  affection  and 
support  of  his  subjects;  and  their  native 
cowardice  was  sanctified  by  resignation 
to  the  divine  decree,  or  the  visionary  hope 
of  a  miraculous  deliverance. 

Of  the  triangle  which  composes  the  fig- 
ure of  Constantinople,  the  two  sides  along 
the  sea  were  made  inaccessible  to  an 
enemy;  the  Propontis  by  nature,  and  the 
harbor  by  art.  Between  the  two  waters, 
the  basis  of  the  triangle,  the  land  side  was 
protected  by  a  double  wall,  and  a  deep 
ditch  of  the  depth  of  one  hundred  feet. 
Against  this  line  of  fortification,  which 
Phranza,  an  eye-witness,  prolongs  to  the 
measure  of  six  miles,  the  Ottomans  di- 
rected their  principal  attack;  and  the 
emperor,  after  distributing  the  service 
and  command  of  the  most  perilous 
stations,  undertook  the  defence  of  the 
external  wall.  In  the  first  days  of  the 
siege  the  Greek  soldiers  descended  into 
the  ditch,  or  sallied  into  the  field;  but  they 
soon  discovered,  that,  in  the  proportion 


HISTORY 


259 


of  their  numbers,  one  Christian  was  of 
more    value    than    twenty   Turks:    and, 
after  these  bold  preludes,  they  were  pru- 
dently content  to  maintain  the  rampart 
with  their  missile  weapons.    Nor  should 
this  prudence  be  accused  of  pusillanimity. 
The  nation  was  indeed  pusillanimous  and 
base;  but  the  last  Constantine  deserves 
the  name  of  a  hero:  his  noble  band  of 
volunteers  was  inspired  with  Roman  vir- 
tue; and  the  foreign  auxiliaries  supported 
the  honor  of  the  Western  chivalry.    The 
incessant  volleys  of  lances  and  arrows  were 
accompanied  with  the  smoke,  the  sound, 
and  the  fire,  of  their  musketry  and  cannon. 
Their  small  arms  discharged  at  the  same 
time  either  five,  or  even  ten,  balls  of  lead, 
of  the  size  of  a  walnut;  and,  according  to 
the  closeness  of  the  ranks  and  the  force 
of  the  powder,  several  breastplates  and 
bodies   were   transpierced   by   the   same 
shot.     But  the  Turkish  approaches  were 
soon  sunk  in  trenches,  or  covered  with 
ruins.     Each  day  added  to  the  science  of 
the  Christians;  but  their  inadequate  stock 
of  gunpowder  was  wasted  in  the  operations 
of  each  day.    Their  ordnance  was  not 
powerful,  either  in  size  or  number;  and  if 
they  possessed  some  heavy  cannon,  they 
feared  to  plant  them  on  the  walls,  lest  the 
aged    structure    should   be    shaken   and 
overthrown  by  the  explosion.    The  same 
destructive  secret  had  been  revealed  to 
the  Moslems;  by  whom  it  was  employed 
with  the  superior  energy  of  ^eal,  riches,  and 
despotism.    The    great   cannon  of    Ma- 
homet has  been  separately  noticed;  an  im- 
portant and  visible  object  in  the  history 
of  the  times:  but  that  enormous  engine 
was  flanked  by   two   fellows   almost  of 
equal  magnitude.      The  long  order  of  the 
Turkish  artillery  was  pointed  against  the 
walls;    fourteen    batteries    thundered   at 
once  on  the  most  accessible  places;  and 
of  one  of  these  it  is  ambiguously  expressed, 
that  it  was  mounted  with  one  hundred 
and  thirty  guns,  or  that  it  discharged  one 
hundred  and  thirty  bullets.    Yet  in  the 
power  and  activity  of  the  sultan,  we  may 
discern  the  infancy  of  the  new  science. 
Under  a  master  who  counted  the  moments 
the  great  cannon  could  be  loaded  and 


fired  no  more  than  seven  times  in  one  day. 
The  heated  metal  unfortunately  burst; 
several  workmen  were  destroyed;  and 
the  skill  of  an  artist  was  admired  who 
bethought  himself  of  preventing  the  dan- 
ger and  the  accident,  by  pouring  oil,  after 
each  explosion,  into  the  mouth  of  the 
cannon. 

The  first  random  shots  were  productive 
of  more  sound  than  effect;  and  it  was  by 
th\.  a^dce  of  a  Christian,  that  the  engi- 
neers were  taught  to  level  their  aim  against 
the  two  opposite  sides  of  the  salient  angles 
of   a  bastion.    However   imperfect,    the 
weight  and  repetition  of  the  fire  made 
some  impression  on  the  walls;  and  the 
Turks,  pushing  their  approaches  to  the 
edge  of  the  ditch,  attempted  to  fill  the 
enormous  chasm,  and  to  build  a  road  to 
the  assault.     Innumerable  fascines,   and 
hogsheads,    and    trunks    of    trees,    were 
heaped  on  each  other;  and  such  was  the 
impetuosity  of  the  throng,  that  the  fore- 
most and  the  weakest  were  pushed  head- 
long down  the  precipice,  and  instantly 
buried  under  the  accumulated  mass.      To 
fill  the  ditch  was  the  toil  of  the  besiegers; 
to  clear  away  the  rubbish  was  the  safety 
of  the  besieged;  and  after  a  long  and 
bloody  conflict,  the  web   that  had  been 
woven  in  the  day  was  still  unravelled  in 
the  night.    The  next  resource  of  Mahomet 
was  the  practice  of  mines;  but  the  soil 
was   rocky;   in   every   attempt   he   was 
stopped  and  undermined  by  the  Christian 
engineers;  nor  had  the  art  been  yet  in- 
vented of  replenishing  those  subterraneous 
passages   with  gunpowder,    and  blowing 
whole  towers  and  cities  into  the  air.    A 
circumstance  that  distinguishes  the  siege 
of  Constantinople  is  the  reunion  of  the 
ancient  and  modern  artillery.    The  can- 
non were  intermingled  with  the  mechanical 
engines  for  casting  stones  and  darts;  the 
bullet  and  the  battering-ram  were  directed 
against  the  same  walls:  nor  had  the  dis- 
covery of  gunpowder  superseded  the  use 
of  the  liquid  and  unextinguishable  fire. 
A  wooden  turret  of  the  largest  size  was 
advanced  on  rollers:  this  portable  magazine 
of   ammunition   and   fascines    was   pro- 
tected by  a  threefold  covering  of  bulls' 


260 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


hides:  incessant  volleys  were  securely 
discharged  from  the  loopholes;  in  the 
front,  three  doors  were  contrived  for  the 
alternate  sally  and  retreat  of  the  soldiers 
and  workmen.  They  ascended  by  a  stair- 
case to  the  upper  platform,  and,  as  high 
as  the  level  of  that  platform,  a  scaling- 
ladder  could  be  raised  by  pulleys  to  form 
a  bridge,  and  grapple  with  the  adverse 
rampart.  By  these  various  arts  of  annoy- 
ance, some  as  new  as  they  were  pernicious 
to  the  Greeks,  the  tower  of  St.  Romanus 
was  at  length  overturned:  after  a  severe 
struggle,  the  Turks  were  repulsed  from 
the  breach,  and  interrupted  by  darkness; 
but  they  trusted  that  with  the  return  of 
light  they  should  renew  the  attack  with 
fresh  vigor  and  decisive  success.  Of  this 
pause  of  action,  this  interval  of  hope, 
each  moment  was  improved,  by  the  ac- 
tivity of  the  emperor  and  Justiniani,  who 
passed  the  night  on  the  spot,  and  urged 
the  labors  which  involved  the  safety  of 
the  church  and  city.  At  the  dawn  of 
day,  the  impatient  sultan  perceived,  with 
astonishment  and  grief,  that  his  wooden 
turret  had  been  reduced  to  ashes:  the 
ditch  was  cleared  and  restored;  and  the 
tower  of  St.  Romanus  was  again  strong 
and  entire.  He  deplored  the  failure  of 
his  design;  and  uttered  a  profane  exclama- 
tion, that  the  word  of  the  thirty-seven 
thousand  prophets  should  not  have  com- 
pelled him  to  believe  that  such  a  work,  hi 
so  short  a  tune,  could  have  been  accom- 
plished by  the  infidels. 

The  generosity  of  the  Christian  princes 
was  cold  and  tardy;  but  hi  the  first  appre- 
hension of  a  siege,  Constantine  had  ne- 
gotiated, in  the  isles  of  the  Archipelago, 
the  Morea,  and  Sicily,  the  most  indispen- 
sable supplies.  As  early  as  the  beginning 
of  April,  five  great  ships,  equipped  for 
merchandise  and  war,  would  have  sailed 
from  the  harbor  of  Chios,  had  not  the  wind 
blown  obstinately  from  the  north.  One 
of  these  ships  bore  the  Imperial  flag;  the 
remaining  four  belonged  to  the  Genoese; 
and  they  were  laden  with  wheat  and 
barley,  with  wine,  oil,  and  vegetables, 
and,  above  all,  with  soldiers  and  mariners, 
for  the  service  of  the  capital.  After  a 


tedious  delay,  a  gentle  breeze,  and,  on  the 
second  day,  a  strong  gale  from  the  south, 
carried  them  through  the  Hellespont  and 
the  Propontis:  but  the  city  was  already 
hi  vested  by  sea  and  land;  and  the  Turkish 
fleet,  at  the  entrance  of  the  Bosphorus, 
was  stretched  from  shore  to  shore,  in  the 
form  of  a  crescent,  to  intercept,  or  at  least 
to  repel,  these  bold  auxiliaries.  The  reader 
who  has  present  to  his  mind  the  geographi- 
cal picture  of  Constantinople,  will  conceive 
and  admire  the  greatness  of  the  spectacle. 
The  five  Christian  ships  continued  to 
advance  with  joyful  shouts,  and  a  full 
press  both  of  sails  and  oars,  against  a 
hostile  fleet  of  three  hundred  vessels;  and 
the  rampart,  the  camp,  the  coasts  of 
Europe  and  Asia,  were  lined  with  innu- 
merable spectators,  who  anxiously  awaited 
the  event  of  this  momentous  succor.  At 
the  first  view  that  event  could  not  appear 
doubtful;  the  superiority  of  the  Moslems 
was  beyond  all  measure  or  account;  and, 
in  a  calm,  their  numbers  and  valor  must 
inevitably  have  prevailed.  But  their 
hasty  and  imperfect  navy  had  been 
created,  not  by  the  genius  of  the  people, 
but  by  the  will  of  the  sultan:  in  the  height 
of  their  prosperity,  the  Turks  have  ac- 
knowledged, that  if  God  had  given  them 
the  earth,  he  had  left  the  sea  to  the  infidels; 
and  a  series  of  defeats,  a  rapid  progress  of 
decay,  has  established  the  truth  of  their 
modest  confession.  Except  eighteen  gal- 
leys of  some  force,  the  rest  of  their  fleet 
consisted  of  open  boats  rudely  constructed 
and  awkwardly  managed,  crowded  with 
troops,  and  destitute  of  cannon ;  and  since 
courage  arises  in  a  great  measure  from  the 
consciousness  of  strength,  the  bravest  of 
the  Janizaries  might  tremble  on  a  new 
element.  In  the  Christian  squadron,  five 
stout  and  lofty  ships  were  guided  by  skilf ul 
pilots,  and  manned  with  the  veterans  of 
Italy  and  Greece,  long  practised  in  the 
arts  and  perils  of  the  sea.  Their  weight 
was  directed  to  sink  or  scatter  the  weak 
obstacles  that  impeded  their  passage:  their 
artillery  swept  the  waters:  their  liquid 
fire  was  poured  on  the  heads  of  the  adver- 
saries, who,  with  the  design  of  boarding, 
presumed  to  approach  them;  and  the 


HISTORY 


261 


winds  and  waves  are  always  on  the  side 
of  the  ablest  navigators.  In  this  conflict, 
the  Imperial  vessel,  which  had  been  almost 
overpowered,  was  rescued  by  the  Genoese; 
but  the  Turks,  in  a  distant  and  a  closer 
attack,  were  twice  repulsed  with  consider- 
able loss.  Mahomet  himself  sat  on  horse- 
back on  the  beach,  to  encourage  their  valor 
by  his  voice  and  presence,  by  the  promise 
of  reward,  and  by  fear  more  potent  than 
the  fear  of  the  enemy.  The  passions  of 
his  soul,  and  even  the  gestures  of  his  body, 
seemed  to  imitate  the  actions  of  the  com- 
batants; and,  as  if  he  had  been  the  lord 
of  nature,  he  spurred  his  horse  with  a  fear- 
less and  impotent  effort  into  the  sea.  His 
loud  reproaches,  and  the  clamors  of  the 
camp,  urged  the  Ottomans  to  a  third 
attack,  more  fatal  and  bloody  than  the 
two  former;  and  I  must  repeat,  though 
I  cannot  credit,  the  evidence  of  Phranza, 
who  affirms,  from  their  own  mouth,  that 
they  lost  above  twelve  thousand  men  in 
the  slaughter  of  the  day.  They  fled  in 
disorder  to  the  shores  of  Europe  and  Asia, 
while  the  Christian  squadron,  triumphant 
and  unhurt,  steered  along  the  Bosphorus, 
and  securely  anchored  within  the  chain 
of  the  harbor.  In  the  confidence  of  vic- 
tory, they  boasted  that  the  whole  Turkish 
power  must  have  yielded  to  their  arms; 
but  the  admiral,  or  captain  bashaw,  found 
some  consolation  for  a  painful  wound  in 
his  eye,  by  representing  that  accident  as 
the  cause  of  his  defeat.  Balthi  Ogli  was 
a  renegade  of  the  race  of  the  Bulgarian 
princes:  his  military  character  was  tainted 
with  the  unpopular  vice  of  avarice;  and 
under  the  despotism  of  the  prince  or 
people,  misfortune  is  a  sufficient  evidence 
of  guilt.  His  rank  and  services  were 
annihilated  by  the  displeasure  of  Ma- 
homet. In  the  royal  presence,  the  captain 
bashaw  was  extended  on  the  ground  by 
four  slaves,  and  received  one  hundred 
strokes  with  a  golden  rod;  his  death 
had  been  pronounced;  and  he  adored  the 
clemency  of  the  sultan,  who  was  satisfied 
with  the  milder  punishment  of  confiscation 
and  exile.  The  introduction  of  this  supply 
revived  the  hopes  of  the  Greeks,  and  ac- 
cused the  supineness  of  their  Western 


allies.  Amidst  the  deserts  of  Anatolia  and 
the  rocks  of  Palestine,  the  millions  of  the 
crusades  had  buried  themselves  in  a  volun- 
tary and  inevitable  grave;  but  the  situa- 
tion of  the  Imperial  city  was  strong  against 
her  enemies,  and  accessible  to  her  friends; 
and  a  rational  and  moderate  armament 
of  the  maritime  states  might  have  saved 
the  relics  of  the  Roman  name,  and  main- 
tained a  Christian  fortress  in  the  heart 
of  the  Ottoman  empire.  Yet  this  was 
the  sole  and  feeble  attempt  for  the  de- 
liverance of  Constantinople:  the  more 
distant  powers  were  insensible  of  its  dan- 
ger; and  the  ambassador  of  Hungary,  or 
at  least  of  Huniades,  resided  hi  the 
Turkish  camp,  to  remove  the  fears,  and 
to  direct  the  operations,  of  the  sultan. 

It  was  difficult  for  the  Greeks  to  pene- 
trate the  secret  of  the  divan;  yet  the 
Greeks  are  persuaded  that  a  resistance 
so  obstinate  and  surprising  had  fatigued 
the  perseverance  of  Mahomet.  He  began 
to  meditate  a  retreat;  and  the  siege  would 
have  been  speedily  raised,  if  the  ambition 
and  jealousy  of  the  second  vizier  had  not 
opposed  the  perfidious  advice  of  Calil 
Bashaw,  who  still  maintained  a  secret 
correspondence  with  the  Byzantine  court. 
The  reduction  of  the  city  appeared  to  be 
hopeless,  unless  a  double  attack  could  be 
made  from  the  harbor  as  well  as  from  the 
land;  but  the  harbor  was  inaccessible:  an 
impenetrable  chain  was  now  defended  by 
eight  large  ships,  more  than  twenty  of  a 
smaller  size,  with  several  galleys  and 
sloops;  and,  instead  of  forcing  this  barrier, 
the  Turks  might  apprehend  a  naval  sally, 
and  a  second  encounter  in  the  open  sea. 
In  this  perplexity,  the  genius  of  Mahomet 
conceived  and  executed  a  plan  of  a  bold 
and  marvellous  cast,  of  transporting  by 
land  his  lighter  vessels  and  military  stores 
from  the  Bosphorus  into  the  higher  part 
of  the  harbor.  The  distance  is  about 
ten  miles;  the  ground  is  uneven,  and  was 
overspread  with  thickets;  and,  as  the 
road  must  be  opened  behind  the  suburb 
of  Galata,  their  free  passage  or  total  de- 
struction must  depend  on  the  option  of 
the  Genoese.  But  these  selfish  merchants 
were  ambitious  of  the  favor  of  being  the 


762 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


last  devoured;  and  the  deficiency  of  art 
was  supplied  by  the  strength  of  obedient 
myriads.  A  level  way  was  covered  with 
a  broad  platform  of  strong  and  solid 
planks;  and  to  render  them  more  slippery 
and  smooth,  they  were  anointed  with  the 
fat  of  sheep  and  oxen.  Fourscore  light 
galleys  and  brigantines,  of  fifty  and  thirty 
oars,  were  disembarked  on  the  Bosphorus 
shore;  arranged  successively  on  rollers;  and 
drawn  forwards  by  the  power  of  men  and 
pulleys.  Two  guides  or  pilots  were  sta- 
tioned at  the  helm,  and  the  prow,  of  each 
vessel:  the  sails  were  unfurled  to  the 
winds;  and  the  labor  was  cheered  by  song 
and  acclamation.  In  the  course  of  a 
single  night,  this  Turkish  fleet  painfully 
climbed  the  hill,  steered  over  the  plain, 
and  was  launched  from  the  declivity  into 
the  shallow  waters  of  the  harbor,  far  above 
the  molestation  of  the  deeper  vessels  of 
the  Greeks.  The  real  importance  of  this 
operation  was  magnified  by  the  consterna- 
tion and  confidence  which  it  inspired; 
but  the  notorious,  unquestionable  fact 
was  displayed  before  the  eyes,  and  is 
recorded  by  the  pens,  of  the  two  nations. 
A  similar  stratagem  had  been  repeatedly 
practised  by  the  ancients;  the  Ottoman 
galleys  (I  must  again  repeat)  should  be 
considered  as  large  boats;  and,  if  we  com- 
pare the  magnitude  and  the  distance,  the 
obstacles  and  the  means,  the  boasted 
miracle  has  perhaps  been  equalled  by  the 
industry  of  our  own  times.  As  soon  as 
Mahomet  had  occupied  the  upper  harbor 
with  a  fleet  and  army,  he  constructed,  in 
the  narrowest  part,  a  bridge,  or  rather 
mole,  of  fifty  cubits  in  breadth,  and  one 
hundred  in  length:  it  was  formed  of  casks 
and  hogsheads;  joined  with  rafters,  linked 
with  iron,  and  covered  with  a  solid  floor. 
On  this  floating  battery  he  planted  one 
of  his  largest  cannon,  while  the  fourscore 
galleys,  with  troops  and  scaling-ladders, 
approached  the  most  accessible  side, 
which  had  formerly  been  stormed  by  the 
Lathi  conquerors.  The  indolence  of  the 
Christians  has  been  accused  for  not  de- 
stroying these  unfinished  works;  but  their 
fire,  by  a  superior  fire,  was  controlled 
and  silenced;  nor  were  they  wanting  in  a 


nocturnal  attempt  to  burn  the  vessels  as 
well  as  the  bridge  of  the  sultan.  His 
vigilance  prevented  their  approach;  their 
foremost  galiots  were  sunk  or  taken;  forty 
youths,  the  bravest  of  Italy  and  Greece, 
were  inhumanly  massacred  at  his  com- 
mand; nor  could  the  emperor's  grief  b^ 
assuaged  by  the  just  though  cruel  retalia- 
tion, of  exposing  from  the  walls  the  heath 
of  two  hundred  and  sixty  Mussulman 
captives.  After  a  siege  of  forty  days,  th  : 
fate  of  Constantinople  could  no  longer 
be  averted.  The  diminutive  garrison 
was  exhausted  by  a  double  attack:  the 
fortifications,  which  had  stood  for  ages 
against  hostile  violence,  were  dismantled 
on  all  sides  by  the  Ottoman  cannon: 
many  breaches  were  opened:  and  near  the 
gate  of  St.  Romanus,  four  towers  had 
been  levelled  with  the  ground.  For  the 
payment  of  his  feeble  and  mutinous  troops, 
Constantine  was  compelled  to  despoil 
the  churches  with  the  promise  of  a  fourfold 
restitution;  and  his  sacrilege  offered  a  new 
reproach  to  the  enemies  of  the  union. 
A  spirit  of  discord  impaired  the  remnant  of 
the  Christian  strength;  the  Genoese  and 
Venetian  auxiliaries  asserted  the  preemi- 
nence of  their  respective  service;  and 
Justiniani  and  the  great  duke,  whose  am- 
bition was  not  extinguished  by  the  common 
danger,  accused  each  other  of  treachery 
and  cowardice. 

During  the  siepc  of  Constantinople, 
the  words  of  peace  and  capitulation  had 
been  sometimes  pronounced;  and  several 
embassies  had  passed  between  the  camp 
and  the  city.  The  Greek  emperor  was 
humbled  by  adversity;  and  would  have 
yielded  to  any  terms  compatible  with 
religion  and  royalty.  The  Turkish  sultan 
was  desirous  of  sparing  the  blood  of  his 
soldiers;  still  more  desirous  of  securing 
for  his  own  use  the  Byzantine  treasures; 
and  he  accomplished  a  sacred  duty  in 
presenting  to  the  Gabours  the  choice  of 
circumcision,  of  tribute,  or  of  death. 
The  avarice  of  Mahomet  might  have 
been  satisfied  with  an  annual  sum  of  one 
hundred  thousand  ducats;  but  his  ambi- 
tion grasped  the  capital  of  the  East:  to 
the  prince  he  offered  a  rich  equivalent, 


HISTORY 


263 


to  the  people  a  free  toleration,  or  a  safe 
departure:  but  after  some  fruitless  treaty, 
he  declared  his  resolution  of  finding  either 
a  throne,  or  a  grave,  under  the  walls  of 
Constantinople.  A  sense  of  honor  and 
the  fear  of  universal  reproach,  forbade 
Palaeologus  to  resign  the  city  into  the  hands 
of  the  Ottomans;  and  he  determined  to 
abide  the  last  extremities  of  war.  Several 
days  were  employed  by  the  sultan  in  the 
preparations  of  the  assault;  and  a  respite 
was  granted  by  his  favorite  science  for 
astrology,  which  had  fixed  on  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  May,  as  the  fortunate  and  fatal 
hour.  On  the  evening  of  the  twenty- 
seventh,  he  issued  his  final  orders;  assem- 
bled in  his  presence  the  military  chiefs, 
and  dispersed  his  heralds  through  the 
camp  to  proclaim  the  duty,  and  the  mo- 
tives, of  the  perilous  enterprise.  Fear  is 
the  first  principle  of  a  despotic  govern- 
ment; and  his  menaces  were  expressed  in 
the  Oriental  style,  that  the  fugitives  and 
deserters,  had  they  the  wings  of  a  bird, 
should  not  escape  from  his  inexorable 
justice.  The  greatest  part  of  his  bashaws 
and  Janizaries  were  the  offspring  of  Chris- 
tian parents:  but  the  glories  of  the  Turkish 
name  were  perpetuated  by  successive 
adoption;  and  in  the  gradual  change  of 
individuals,  the  spirit  of  a  legion,  a  regi- 
ment, or  an  oda,  is  kept  alive  by  imitation 
and  discipline.  In  this  holy  warfare, 
the  Moslems  were  exhorted  to  purify  their 
minds  with  prayer,  their  bodies  with  seven 
ablutions;  and  to  abstain  from  food 
till  the  close  of  the  ensuing  day.  A  crowd 
of  dervises  visited  the  tents,  to  instil  the 
desire  of  martyrdom,  and  the  assurance 
of  spending  an  immortal  youth  amidst  the 
rivers  and  gardens  of  paradise,  and  in 
the  embraces  of  the  black-eyed  virgins. 
Yet  Mahomet  principally  trusted  to  the 
efficacy  of  temporal  and  visible  rewards. 
A  double  pay  was  promised  to  the  vic- 
torious troops:  "The  city  and  the  build- 
ings," said  Mahomet,  "are  mine;  but  I 
resign  to  your  valor  the  captives  and  the 
spoil,  the  treasures  of  gold  and  beauty; 
be  rich  and  be  happy.  Many  are  the 
provinces  of  my  empire;  the  intrepid  sol- 
dier who  first  ascends  the  walls  of  Con- 


stantinople shall  be  rewarded  with  the 
government  of  the  fairest  and  most 
wealthy;  and  my  gratitude  shall  accumu- 
late his  honors  and  fortunes  above  the 
measure  of  his  own  hopes."  Such  various 
and  potent  motives  diffused  among  the 
Turks  a  general  ardor,  regardless  of  life 
and  impatient  for  action:  the  camp 
reechoed  with  the  'Moslem  shouts  of 
"God  is  God:  there  is  but  one  God,  and 
Mahomet  is  the  apostle  of  God;"  and  the 
sea  and  land,  from  Galata  to  the  seven 
towers,  were  illuminated  by  the  blaze  of 
their  nocturnal  fires. 

Far  different  was  the  state  of  the 
Christians;  who,  with  loud  and  impotent 
complaints,  deplored  the  guilt,  or  the 
punishment,  of  their  sins.  The  celestial 
image  of  the  Virgin  had  been  exposed 
in  solemn  procession;  but  their  divine 
patroness  was  deaf  to  their  entreaties: 
they  accused  the  obstinacy  of  the  emperor 
for  refusing  a  timely  surrender;  anticipated 
the  horrors  of  their  fate;  and  sighed  for 
the  repose  and  security  of  Turkish  servi- 
tude. The  noblest  of  the  Greeks,  and  the 
bravest  of  the  allies,  were  summoned  to 
the  palace,  to  prepare  them  on  the  evening 
of  the  twenty-eighth,  for  the  duties  and 
dangers  of  the  general  assault.  The  last 
speech  of  Palaeologus  was  the  funeral 
oration  of  the  Roman  empire:  he  promised, 
he  conjured,  and  he  vainly  attempted  to 
infuse  the  hope  which  was  extinguished 
in  his  own  mind.  In  this  world  all  was 
comfortless  and  gloomy;  and  neither  the 
gospel  nor  the  church  have  proposed  any 
conspicuous  recompense  to  the  heroes 
who  fall  in  the  service  of  their  country. 
But  the  example  of  their  prince,  and  the 
confinement  of  a  siege,  had  armed  these 
warriors  with  the  courage  of  despair, 
and  the  pathetic  scene  is  described  by  the 
feelings  of  the  historian  Phranza,  who  was 
himself  present  at  this  mournful  assembly. 
They  wept,  they  embraced;  regardless  of 
their  families  and  fortunes,  they  devoted 
their  lives;  and  each  commander,  depart- 
ing to  his  station,  maintained  all  night  a 
vigilant  and  anxious  watch  on  the  ram- 
part. The  emperor,  and  some  faith- 
ful companions,  entered  the  dome  of 


264 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


St.  Sophia,  which  in  a  few  hours  was  to  be 
converted  into  a  mosque;  and  devoutly 
received,  with  tears  and  prayers,  the 
sacrament  of  the  holy  communion.  He 
reposed  some  moments  in  the  palace, 
which  resounded  with  cries  and  lamenta- 
tions; solicited  the  pardon  of  all  whom 
he  might  have  injured;  and  mounted  on 
horseback  to  visit  the  guards,  and  explore 
the  motions  of  the  enemy.  The  distress 
and  fall  of  the  last  Constantine  are  more 
glorious  than  the  long  prosperity  of  the 
Byzantine  Caesars. 

In  the  confusion  of  darkness,  an  assail- 
ant may  sometimes  succeed;  but  in  this 
great  and  general  attack,  the  military 
judgment  and  astrological  knowledge  of 
Mahomet  advised  him  to  expect  the 
morning,  the  memorable  twenty-ninth  of 
May,  in  the  fourteen  hundred  and  fifty- 
third  year  of  the  Christian  era.  The 
preceding  night  had  been  strenuously  em- 
ployed: the  troops,  the  cannons,  and  the 
fascines,  were  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the 
ditch,  which  in  many  parts  presented  a 
smooth  and  level  passage  to  the  breach; 
and  his  fourscore  galleys  almost  touched, 
with  the  prows  and  their  scaling  ladders, 
the  less  defensible  walls  of  the  harbor. 
Under  pain  of  death,  silence  was  enjoined: 
but  the  physical  laws  of  motion  and  sound 
are  not  obedient  to  discipline  or  fear; 
each  individual  might  suppress  his  voice 
and  measure  his  footsteps;  but  the  march 
and  labor  of  thousands  must  inevitably 
produce  a  strange  confusion  of  dissonant 
clamors,  which  reached  the  ears  of  the 
watchmen  of  the  towers.  At  daybreak, 
without  the  customary  signal  of  the  morn- 
ing gun,  the  Turks  assaulted  the  city  by 
sea  and  land;  and  the  similitude  of  a  twined 
or  twisted  thread  has  been  applied  to  the 
closeness  and  continuity  of  their  line  of 
attack.  The  foremost  ranks  consisted  of 
the  refuse  of  the  host,  a  voluntary  crowd 
who  fought  without  orckr  or  command; 
of  the  feebleness  of  age  *>r  childhood,  of 
peasants  and  vagrants,  and  of  all  who 
had  joined  the  camp  in  the  blind  hope  of 
plunder  and  martyrdom.  The  common 
impulse  drove  them  onwards  to  the  wall; 
the  most  audacious  to  climb  were  instantly 


precipitated;  and  not  a  dart,  not  a  bullet, 
of  the  Christians,  was  idly  wasted  on 
the  accumulated  throng.  But  their 
strength  and  ammunition  were  exhausted 
in  this  laborious  defence:  the  ditch  was 
filled  with  the  bodies  of  the  slain:  they 
supported  the  footsteps  of  their  com- 
panions; and  of  this  devoted  vanguard  the 
death  was  more  serviceable  than  the  life. 
Under  their  respective  bashaws  and  san- 
jaks,  the  troops  of  Anatolia  and  Romania 
were  successively  led  to  the  charge:  their 
progress  was  various  and  doubtful;  but, 
after  a  conflict  of  two  hours,  the  Greeks 
still  maintained,  and  improved  their  ad- 
vantage; and  the  voice  of  the  emperor 
was  heard,  encouraging  his  soldiers  to 
achieve,  by  a  last  effort,  the  deliverance 
of  their  country.  In  that  fatal  moment, 
the  Janizaries  arose,  fresh,  vigorous,  and 
invincible.  The  sultan  himself  on  horse- 
back with  an  iron  mace  in  his  hand,  was 
the  spectator  and  judge  of  their  valor:  he 
was  surrounded  by  ten  thousand  of  his 
domestic  troops,  whom  he  reserved  for 
the  decisive  occasion,  and  the  tide  of  battle 
was  directed  and  impelled  by  his  voice 
and  eye.  His  numerous  ministers  of  jus- 
tice were  posted  behind  the  line,  to  urge, 
to  restrain,  and  to  punish;  and  if  danger 
was  in  the  front,  shame  and  inevitable 
death  were  in  the  rear,  of  the  fugitives. 
The  cries  of  fear  and  of  pain  were  drowned 
in  the  martial  music  of  drums,  trumpets, 
and  attaballs;  and  experience  has  proved, 
that  the  mechanical  operation  of  sounds, 
by  quickening  the  circulation  of  the  blood 
and  spirits,  will  act  on  the  human  machine 
more  forcibly  than  the  eloquence  of  reason 
and  honor.  From  the  lines,  the  galleys, 
and  the  bridge,  the  Ottoman  artillery 
thundered  on  all  sides;  and  the  camp  and 
city,  the  Greeks  and  the  Turks,  were  in- 
volved in  a  cloud  of  smoke  which  could 
only  be  dispelled  by  the  final  deliverance 
or  destruction  of  the  Roman  empire. 
The  single  combats  of  the  heroes  of  history 
or  fable  amuse  our  fancy  and  engage  our 
affections:  the  skilful  evolutions  of  war 
may  inform  the  mind,  and  improve  a 
necessary,  though  pernicious,  science.  But 
in  the  uniform  and  odious  pictures  of  a 


HISTORY 


265 


general  assault,  all  is  blood,  and  horror, 
and  confusion;  nor  shall  I  strive,  at  the 
distance  of  three  centuries,  and  a  thousand 
miles,  to  delineate  a  scene  of  which  there 
could  be  no  spectators,  and  of  which  the 
actors  themselves  were  incapable  of  form- 
ing any  just  or  adequate  idea. 

The  immediate  loss  of  Constantinople 
may  be  ascribed  to  the  bullet,  or  arrow, 
which  pierced  the  gauntlet  of  John  Jus- 
tiniani.  The  sight  of  his  blood,  and  the 
exquisite  pain,  appalled  the  courage  of 
the  chief,  whose  arms  and  counsels  were 
the  firmest  rampart  of  the  city.  As  he 
withdrew  from  his  station  in  quest  of  a 
surgeon,  his  flight  was  perceived  and 
stopped  by  the  indefatigable  emperor. 
"Your  wound,"  exclaimed  Palaeologus, 
"is  slight;  the  danger  is  pressing:  your 
presence  is  necessary;  and  whither  will 
you  retire?" — "I  will  retire,"  said  the 
trembling  Genoese,  "by  the  same  road 
which  God  has  opened  to  the  Turks;"  and 
at  these  words  he  hastily  passed  through 
one  of  the  breaches  of  the  inner  wall. 
By  this  pusillanimous  act  he  stained  the 
honors  of  a  military  lif e ;  and  the  few  days 
which  he  survived  in  Galata,  or  the  Isle 
of  Chios,  were  imbittered  by  his  own  and 
the  public  reproach.  His  example  was 
imitated  by  the  greatest  part  of  the  Latin 
auxiliaries,  and  the  defence  began  to 
slacken  when  the  attack  was  pressed  with 
redoubled  vigor.  The  number  of  the 
Ottomans  was  fifty,  perhaps  a  hundred, 
times  superior  to  that  of  the  Christians; 
the  double  walls  were  reduced  by  the 
cannon  to  a  heap  of  ruins;  in  a  circuit  of 
several  miles,  some  places  must  be  found 
more  easy  of  access,  or  more  feebly 
guarded;  and  if  the  besiegers  could  pene- 
trate in  a  single  point,  the  whole  city  was 
irrecoverably  lost.  The  first  who  de- 
served the  sultan's  reward  was  Hassan 
the  Janizary,  of  gigantic  stature  and 
strength.  With  his  cimeter  in  one  hand 
and  his  buckler  in  the  other,  he  ascended 
the  outward  fortification:  of  the  thirty 
Janizaries,  who  were  emulous  of  his  valor, 
eighteen  perished  hi  the  bold  adventure. 
Hassan  and  his  twelve  companions  had 
reached  the  summit:  the  giant  was  precipi- 


tated from  the  rampart:  he  rose  on  one 
knee,  and  was  again  oppressed  by  a  shower 
of  darts  and  stones.  But  his  success  had 
proved  that  the  achievement  was  possible: 
the  walls  and  towers  were  instantly  cov- 
ered with  a  swarm  of  Turks;  and  the 
Greeks,  now  driven  from  the  vantage 
ground,  were  overwhelmed  by  increasing 
multitudes.  Amidst  these  multitudes, 
the  emperor,  who  accomplished  all  the 
duties  of  a  general  and  a  soldier,  was  long 
seen  and  finally  lost.  The  nobles,  who 
fought  round  his  person,  sustained,  till 
their  last  breath,  the  honorable  names  of 
Palaeologus  and  Cantacuzene:  his  mourn- 
ful exclamation  was  heard,  "Cannot  there 
be  found  a  Christian  to  cut  off  my  head?" 
and  his  last  fear  was  that  of  falling  alive 
into  the  hands  of  the  infidels.  The  pru- 
dent despair  of  Constantine  cast  away  the 
purple:  amidst  the  tumult  he  fell  by  an 
unknown  hand,  and  his  body  was  buried 
under  a  mountain  of  the  slain.  After 
his  death,  resistance  and  order  were  no 
more:  the  Greeks  fled  towards  the  city; 
and  many  were  pressed  and  stifled  in  the 
narrow  pass  of  the  gate  of  St.  Romanus. 
The  victorious  Turks  rushed  through  the 
breaches  of  the  inner  wall;  and  as  they 
advanced  into  the  streets,  they  were  soon 
joined  by  their  brethren,  who  had  forced 
the  gate  Phenar  on  the  side  of  the  harbor. 
In  the  first  heat  of  the  pursuit,  about  two 
thousand  Christians  were  put  to  the 
sword;  but  avarice  soon  prevailed  over 
cruelty;  and  the  victors  acknowledged, 
that  they  should  immediately  have  given 
quarter  if  the  valor  of  the  emperor  and 
his  chosen  bands  had  not  prepared  them 
for  a  similar  opposition  in  every  part  of 
the  capital.  It  was  thus,  after  a  siege 
of  fifty-three  days,  that  Constantinople, 
which  had  defied  the  power  of  Chosroes, 
the  Chagan,  and  the  caliphs,  was  irre- 
trievably subdued  by  the  arms  of  Ma- 
homet the  Second.  Her  empire  only  had 
been  subverted  by  the  Latins:  her  religion 
was  trampled  in  the  dust  by  the  Moslem 
conquerors. 

The  tidings  of  misfortune  fly  with  a 
rapid  wing;  yet  such  was  the  extent  of 
Constantinople,  that  the  more  distant 


266 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


quarters  might  prolong,  some  moments, 
the  happy  ignorance  of  their  ruin.  But 
in  the  general  consternation,  in  the  feelings 
of  selfish  or  social  anxiety,  in  the  tumult 
and  thunder  of  the  assault,  a  sleepless 
night  and  morning  must  have  elapsed; 
nor  can  I  believe  that  many  Grecian  ladies 
were  awakened  by  the  Janizaries  from  a 
sound  and  tranquil  slumber.  On  the 
assurance  of  the  public  calamity,  the 
houses  and  convents  were  instantly  de- 
serted; and  the  trembling  inhabitants 
flocked  together  in  the  streets,  like  a  herd 
of  timid  animals,  as  if  accumulated  weak- 
ness could  be  productive  of  strength,  or  in 
the  vain  hope,  that  amid  the  crowd  each 
individual  might  be  safe  and  invisible. 
From  every  part  of  the  capital,  they 
flowed  into  the  church  of  St.  Sophia:  in 
the  space  of  an  hour,  the  sanctuary,  the 
choir,  the  nave,  the  upper  and  lower 
galleries,  were  filled  with  the  multitudes 
of  fathers  and  husbands,  of  women  and 
children,  of  priests,  monks,  and  religious 
virgins:  the  doors  were  barred  on  the  in- 
side, and  they  sought  protection  from  the 
sacred  dome,  which  they  had  so  lately 
abhorred  as  a  profane  and  polluted  edifice. 
Their  confidence  was  founded  on  the 
prophecy  of  an  enthusiast  or  impostor; 
that  one  day  the  Turks  would  enter  Con- 
stantinople, and  pursue  the  Romans  as  far 
as  the  column  of  Constantine  in  the  square 
before  St.  Sophia:  but  that  this  would  be 
the  term  of  their  calamities:  that  an  angel 
would  descend  from  heaven,  with  a  sword 
in  his  hand,  and  would  deliver  the  empire, 
with  that  celestial  weapon,  to  a  poor  man 
seated  at  the  foot  of  the  column.  "Take 
this  sword,"  would  he  say,  "and  avenge 
the  people  of  the  Lord."  At  these  animat- 
ing words,  the  Turks  would  instantly  fly, 
and  the  victorious  Romans  would  drive 
them  from  the  West,  and  from  all  Ana- 
tolia, as  far  as  the  frontiers  of  Persia. 
It  is  on  this  occasion  that  Ducas,  with 
some  fancy  and  much  truth,  upbraids  the 
discord  and  obstinacy  of  the  Greeks. 
"Had  that  angel  appeared,"  exclaims  the 
historian,  "had  he  offered  to  exterminate 
your  foes  if  you  would  consent  to  the  union 
of  the  church,  even  then,  hi  that  fatal 


moment,  you  would  have  rejected  youi 
safety,  or  have  deceived  your  God." 

While  they  expected  the  descent  of  the 
tardy  angel,  the  doors  were  broken  with 
axes;  and  as  the  Turks  encountered  n<? 
resistance,  their  bloodless  hands  were 
employed  in  selecting  and  securing  the 
multitude  of  their  prisoners.  Youth, 
beauty,  and  the  appearance  of  wealth, 
attracted  their  choice;  and  the  right  of 
property  was  decided  among  themselves 
by  a  prior  seizure,  by  personal  strength, 
and  by  the  authority  of  command.  In 
the  space  of  an  hour,  the  male  captives 
were  bound  with  cords,  the  females  with 
their  veils  and  girdles.  The  senators  were 
linked  with  their  slaves;  the  prelates,  with 
the  porters  of  the  church;  and  young  men 
of  a  plebeian  class  with  noble  maids,  whose 
faces  had  been  invisible  to  the  sun  and 
their  nearest  kindred.  In  this  common 
captivity,  the  ranks  of  society  were  con- 
founded; the  ties  of  nature  were  cut  asun- 
der; and  the  inexorable  soldier  was  careless 
of  the  father's  groans,  the  tears  of  the 
mother,  and  the  lamentations  of  the  chil- 
dren. The  loudest  in  their  wailings  were 
the  nuns,  who  were  torn  from  the  altar 
with  naked  bosoms,  outstretched  hands, 
and  dishevelled  hair;  and  we  should 
piously  believe  that  few  could  be  tempted 
to  prefer  the  vigils  of  the  harem  to  those 
of  the  monastery.  Of  these  unfortunate 
Greeks,  of  these  domestic  animals,  whole 
strings  were  rudely  driven  through  the 
streets;  and  as  the  conquerors  were  eager 
to  return  for  more  prey,  their  trembling 
pace  was  quickened  with  menaces  and 
blows.  *  *  *  *  The  chain  and  en- 
trance of  the  outward  harbor  was  still 
occupied  by  the  Italian  ships  of  merchan- 
dise and  war.  They  had  signalized  their 
valor  in  the  siege;  they  embraced  the  mo- 
ment of  retreat,  while  the  Turkish  mariners 
were  dissipated  in  the  pillage  of  the  city. 
When  they  hoisted  sail,  the  beach  was 
covered  with  a  suppliant  and  lamentable 
crowd;  but  the  means  of  transportation 
were  scanty:  the  Venetians  and  Genoese 
selected  their  countrymen;  and,  notwith- 
standing the  fairest  promises  of  the  sultan, 
the  inhabitants  of  Galata  evacuated  their 


HISTORY 


267 


houses,   and   embarked  with   their  most 
precious  effects. 

In  the  fall  and  the  sack  of  great  cities, 
an  historian  is  condemned  to  repeat  the 
tale  of  uniform  calamity:  the  same  effects 
must  be  produced  by  the  same  passions; 
and  when  those  passions  may  be  indulged 
without  control,  small,  alas!  is  the  differ- 
ence between  civilized  and  savage  man. 
Amidst  the  vague  exclamations  of  bigotry 
and  hatred,  the  Turks  are  not  accused  of 
a  wanton  or  immoderate  effusion  of  Chris- 
tian blood:  but  according  to  their  maxims, 
(the  maxims  of  antiquity,)  the  lives  of  the 
vanquished  were  forfeited;  and  the  legiti- 
mate reward  of  the  conqueror  was  de- 
rived from  the  service,  the  sale,  or  the 
ransom,  of  his  captives  of  both  sexes. 
The  wealth  of  Constantinople  had  been 
granted  by  the  sultan  to  his  victorious 
troops;  and  the  rapine  of  an  hour  is  more 
productive  than  the  industry  of  years. 
But  as  no  regular  division  was  attempted 
of  the  spoil,  the  respective  shares  were 
not  determined  by  merit;  and  the  rewards 
of  valor  were  stolen  away  by  the  followers 
of  the  camp,  who  had  declined  the  toil  and 
danger  of  the  battle.  The  narrative  of 
their  depredations  could  not  afford  either 
amusement  or  instruction:  the  total 
amount,  in  the  last  poverty  of  the  empire, 
has  been  valued  at  four  millions  of  ducats; 
and  of  this  sum  a  small  part  was  the 
property  of  the  Venetians,  the  Genoese, 
the  Florentines,  and  the  merchants  of 
Ancona.  Of  these  foreigners,  the  stock 
was  improved  in  quick  and  perpetual 
circulation:  but  the  riches  of  the  Greeks 
were  displayed  in  the  idle  ostentation  of 
palaces  and  wardrobes,  or  deeply  buried 
in  treasures  of  ingots  and  old  coin,  lest 
it  should  be  demanded  at  their  hands  for 
the  defence  of  their  country.  The  pro- 
fanation and  plunder  of  the  monasteries 
and  churches  excited  the  most  tragic 
complaints.  The  dome  of  St.  Sophia 
itself,  the  earthly  heaven,  the  second 
firmament,  the  vehicle  of  the  cherubim, 
the  throne  of  the  glory  of  God,  was 
despoiled  of  the  oblations  of  ages;  and 
the  gold  and  silver,  the  pearls  and  jewels, 
the  vases  and  sacerdotal  ornaments,  were 


most  wickedly  converted  to  the  service  of 
mankind.  After  the  divine  images  had 
been  stripped  of  all  that  could  be  valuable 
to  a  profane  eye,  the  canvas,  or  the  wood, 
was  torn,  or  broken,  or  burnt,  or  trod 
under  foot,  or  applied,  in  the  stables  or 
the  kitchen,  to  the  vilest  uses.  The  ex- 
ample of  sacrilege  was  imitated,  however, 
from  the  Latin  conquerors  of  Constanti- 
nople; and  the  treatment  which  Christ, 
the  Virgin,  and  the  saints,  had  sustained 
from  the  guilty  Catholic,  might  be  inflicted 
by  the  zealous  Mussulman  on  the  monu- 
ments of  idolatry.  Perhaps,  instead  of 
joining  the  public  clamor,  a  philosopher  will 
observe,  that  in  the  decline  of  the  arts 
the  workmanship  could  not  be  more 
valuable  than  the  work,  and  that  a  fresh 
supply  of  visions  and  miracles  would 
speedily  be  renewed  by  the  craft  of  the 
priest  and  the  credulity  of  the  people. 
He  will  more  seriously  deplore  the  loss 
of  the  Byzantine  libraries,  which  were 
destroyed  or  scattered  in  the  general 
confusion:  one  hundred  and  twenty  thou- 
sand manuscripts  are  said  to  have  disap- 
peared; ten  volumes  might  be  purchased 
for  a  single  ducat;  and  the  same  igno- 
minious price,  too  high  perhaps  for  a  shelf 
of  theology,  included  the  whole  works  of 
Aristotle  and  Homer,  the  noblest  produc- 
tions of  the  science  and  literature  of  an- 
cient Greece.  We  may  reflect  with  pleas- 
ure, that  an  inestimable  portion  of  our 
classic  treasures  was  safely  deposited  in 
Italy;  and  that  the  mechanics  of  a  German 
town  had  invented  an  art  which  derides 
the  havoc  of  time  and  barbarism. 

From  the  first  hour  of  the  memorable 
twenty-ninth  of  May,  disorder  and  rapine 
prevailed  in  Constantinople,  till  the  eighth 
hour  of  the  same  day;  when  the  sultan 
himself  passed  in  triumph  through  the 
gate  of  St.  Romanus.  He  was  attended 
by  his  viziers,  bashaws,  and  guards,  each 
of  whom  (says  a  Byzantine  historian)  was 
robust  as  Hercules,  dexterous  as  Apollo, 
and  equal  in  battle  to  any  ten  of  the  race 
of  ordinary  mortals.  The  conqueror  gazed 
with  satisfaction  and  wonder  on  the 
strange,  though  splendid,  appearance  of 
the  domes  and  palaces,  so  dissimilar  from 


268 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


the  style  of  Oriental  architecture.  In  the 
hippodrome,  or  atmeidan,  his  eye  was  at- 
tracted by  the  twisted  column  of  the  three 
serpents;  and,  as  a  trial  of  his  strength, 
he  shattered  with  his  iron  mace  or  battle- 
axe  the  under  jaw  of  one  of  these  monsters, 
which  in  the  eyes  of  the  Turks  were  the 
idols  or  talismans  of  the  city.  At  the 
principal  door  of  St.  Sophia,  he  alighted 
from  his  horse,  and  entered  the  dome; 
and  such  was  his  jealous  regard  for  that 
monument  of  his  glory,  that  on  observing  a 
zealous  Mussulman  in  the  act  of  breaking 
the  marble  pavement,  he  admonished  him 
with  his  cimeter,  that,  if  the  spoil  and 
captives  were  granted  to  the  soldiers,  the 
public  and  private  buildings  had  been  re- 
served for  the  prince.  By  his  command 
the  metropolis  of  the  Eastern  church  was 
transformed  into  a  mosque:  the  rich  and 
portable  instruments  of  superstition  had 
been  removed;  the  crosses  were  thrown 
down;  and  the  walls,  which  were  covered 
with  images  and  mosaics,  were  washed 
and  purified,  and  restored  to  a  state  of 
naked  simplicity.  On  the  same  day,  or 
on  the  ensuing  Friday,  the  muezin,  or  crier, 
ascended  the  most  lofty  turret,  and  pro- 
claimed the  ezan,  or  public  invitation  in 
the  name  of  God  and  his  prophet;  the 
imam  preached;  and  Mahomet  the  Second 
performed  the  namaz  of  prayer  and  thanks- 
giving on  the  great  altar,  where  the  Chris- 
tian mysteries  had  so  lately  been  celebrated 
before  the  last  of  the  Caesars.  From  St. 
Sophia  he  proceeded  to  the  august,  but 
desolate,  mansion  of  a  hundred  successors 
of  the  great  Constantine,  but  which  in 
a  few  hours  had  been  stripped  of  the  pomp 
of  royalty.  A  melancholy  reflection  on 
the  vicissitudes  of  human  greatness  forced 
itself  on  his  mind;  and  he  repeated  an 
elegant  distich  of  Persian  poetry:  "The 
spider  has  wove  his  web  in  the  Imperial 
palace;  and  the  owl  hath  sung  her  watch- 
song  on  the  towers  of  Afrasiab." 

Yet  his  mind  was  not  satisfied,  nor  did 
the  victory  seem  complete,  till  he  was 
informed  of  the  fate  of  Constantine; 
whether  he  had  escaped,  or  been  made 
prisoner,  or  had  fallen  in  the  battle. 
Two  Janizaries  claimed  the  honor  and 


reward  of  his  death:  the  body,  under  a 
heap  of  slain,  was  discovered  by  the  golden 
eagles  embroidered  on  his  shoes:  the 
Greeks  acknowledged,  with  tears,  the 
head  of  their  late  emperor;  and,  after 
exposing  the  bloody  trophy,  Mahomet 
bestowed  on  his  rival  the  honors  of  a 
decent  funeral.  .  .  . 

The  importance  of  Constantinople  was 
felt  and  magnified  in  its  loss:  the  pontifi- 
cate of  Nicholas  the  Fifth,  however  peace- 
ful and  prosperous,  was  dishonored  by  the 
fall  of  the  Eastern  empire;  and  the  grief 
and  terror  of  the  Latins  revived,  or  seemed 
to  revive,  the  old  enthusiasm  of  the  cru- 
sades. In  one  of  the  most  distant  coun- 
tries of  the  West,  Philip  duke  of  Burgundy 
entertained,  at  Lisle  in  Flanders,  an  assem- 
bly of  his  nobles;  and  the  pompous  pa- 
geants of  the  feast  were  skilfully  adapted 
to  their  fancy  and  feelings.  In  the  midst 
of  the  banquet  a  gigantic  Saracen  entered 
the  hall,  leading  a  fictitious  elephant  with 
a  castle  on  his  back:  a  matron  in  a  mourn- 
ing robe,  the  symbol  of  religion,  was  seen 
to  issue  from  the  castle:  she  deplored  her 
oppression,  and  accused  the  slowness  of 
her  champions:  the  principal  herald  of  the 
golden  fleece  advanced,  bearing  on  his 
fist  a  live  pheasant,  which,  according  to 
the  rites  of  chivalry,  he  presented  to  the 
duke.  At  this  extraordinary  summons, 
Philip,  a  wise  and  aged  prince,  engaged 
his  person  and  powers  in  the  holy  war 
against  the  Turks:  his  example  was  imi- 
tated by  the  barons  and  knights  of  the 
assembly:  they  swore  to  God,  the  Virgin, 
the  ladies  and  the  pheasant;  and  their 
particular  vows  were  not  less  extravagant 
than  the  general  sanction  of  their  oath. 
But  the  performance  was  made  to  depend 
on  some  future  and  foreign  contingency; 
and  during  twelve  years,  till  the  last  hour 
of  his  life,  the  duke  of  Burgundy  might  be 
scrupulously,  and  perhaps  sincerely,  on 
the  eve  of  his  departure.  Had  every 
breast  glowed  with  the  same  ardor;  had 
the  union  of  the  Christians  corresponded 
with  their  bravery;  had  every  country, 
from  Sweden  to  Naples,  supplied  a  just 
proportion  of  cavalry  and  infantry,  of 
men  and  money,  it  is  indeed  probable  that 


HISTORY 


269 


Constantinople  would  have  been  delivered, 
and  that  the  Turks  might  have  been  chased 
beyond  the  Hellespont  or  the  Euphrates. 
But  the  secretary  of  the  emperor,  who 
composed  every  epistle,  and  attended 
every  meeting,  ^Eneas  Sylvius,  a  statesman 
and  orator,  describes  from  his  own  ex- 
perience the  repugnant  state  and  spirit  of 
Christendom.  "It  is  a  body,"  says  he, 
"without  a  head;  a  republic  without  laws 
or  magistrates.  The  pope  and  the  em- 
peror may  shine  as  lofty  titles,  as  splendid 
images;  but  they  are  unable  to  command, 
and  none  are  willing  to  obey:  every  state 
has  a  separate  prince,  and  every  prince 
has  a  separate  interest.  What  eloquence 
could  unite  so  many  discordant  and  hostile 
powers  under  the  same  standard?  Could 
they  be  assembled  in  arms,  who  would 
dare  to  assume  the  office  of  general? 
What  order  could  be  maintained? — what 
military  discipline?  Who  would  under- 
take to  feed  such  an  enormous  multitude? 
Who  would  understand  their  various  lan- 
guages, or  direct  their  stranger  and  in- 
compatible manners?  What  mortal  could 
reconcile  the  English  with  the  French, 
Genoa  with  Arragon,  the  Germans  with 
the  natives  of  Hungary  and  Bohemia?  If 
a  small  number  enlisted  in  the  holy  war, 
they  must  be  overthrown  by  the  infidels; 
if  many,  by  their  own  weight  and  confu- 
sion." Yet  the  same  ^Eneas,  when  he  was 
raised  to  the  papal  throne,  under  the  name 


of  Pius  the  Second,  devoted  his  life  to  the 
prosecution  of  the  Turkish  war.  In  the 
council  of  Mantua  he  excited  some  sparks 
of  a  false  or  feeble  enthusiasm;  but  when 
the  pontiff  appeared  at  Ancona,  to  embark 
in  person  with  the  troops,  engagements 
vanished  in  excuses;  a  precise  day  was 
adjourned  to  an  indefinite  term;  and  his 
effective  army  consisted  of  some  German 
pilgrims,  whom  he  was  obliged  to  disband 
with  indulgences  and  arms.  Regardless 
of  futurity,  his  successors  and  the  powers 
of  Italy  were  involved  in  the  schemes  of 
present  and  domestic  ambition;  and  the 
distance  or  proximity  of  each  object 
determined  in  their  eyes  its  apparent 
magnitude.  A  more  enlarged  view  of  their 
interest  would  have  taught  them  to  main- 
tain a  defensive  and  naval  war  against  the 
common  enemy;  and  the  support  of  Scan- 
derbeg  and  his  brave  Albanians  might 
have  prevented  the  subsequent  invasion 
of  the  kingdom  of  Naples.  The  siege 
and  sack  of  Otranto  by  the  Turks  diffused 
a  general  consternation;  and  Pope  Sixtus 
was  preparing  to  fly  beyond  the  Alps, 
when  the  storm  was  instantly  dispelled 
by  the  death  of  Mahomet  the  Second, 
in  the  fifty-first  year  of  his  age.  His 
lofty  genius  aspired  to  the  conquest  of 
Italy;  he  was  possessed  of  a  strong  city 
and  a  capacious  harbor;  and  the  same 
reign  might  have  been  decorated  with  the 
trophies  of  the  NEW  and  theANCiENT  ROME. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  (1795-1881) 

Carlyle  was  one  of  the  most  powerful  moralists  of  his  generation,  tearing  the  mask  of  hypocrisy 
and  self-esteem  from  the  face  of  respectable  society.  "Sartor  Resartus"  represents  his  soul -experience;  a 
strange,  powerful  book  which  every  young  man  or  young  woman  should  absorb.  As  historian,  he  had 
not  been  trained  in  the  modern  school  of  accurate  scholarship,  seeing  history  rather  by  lightning-flashes 
as  the  working  out  of  destiny  in  the  lives  of  men.  Some  of  his  pen-portraits  and  descriptions  of  great 
episodes  are  unsurpassed  for  vividness  and  power. 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 
BOOK  V 

CHAPTER  V 
LIKE   A  THUNDER-CLOUD 

BUT  the  grand,  and  indeed  substantially 
primary  and  generic  aspect  of  the  Con- 


summation of  Terror  remains  still  to  be 
looked  at;  nay  blinkard  History  has  for 
most  part  all  but  overlooked  this  aspect, 
the  soul  of  the  whole;  that  which  makes 
it  terrible  to  the  Enemies  of  France. 
Let  Despotism  and  Cimmerian  Coalitions 
consider.  All  French  men  and  French 
things  are  in  a  State  of  Requisition;  Four- 
teen Armies  are  got  on  foot;  Patriotism, 


270 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


with  all  that  it  has  of  faculty  in  heart  or 
in  head,  in  soul  or  body  or  breeches- 
pocket,  is  rushing  to  the  Frontiers,  to  pre- 
vail or  die!  Busy  sits  Carnot,  in  Salut 
Public;  busy,  for  his  share,  in  "organizing 
victory."  Not  swifter  pulses  that  Guillo- 
tine, in  dread  systole-diastole  hi  the 
Place  de  la  Revolution,  than  smites  the 
Sword  of  Patriotism,  smiting  Cimmeria 
back  to  its  own  borders,  from  the  sacred 
soil. 

In  fact,  the  Government  is  what  we  can 
call  Revolutionary;  and  some  men  are 
"a  la  hauteur,"  on  a  level  with  circum- 
stances; and  others  are  not  a  la  hauteur, — 
so  much  the  worse  for  them.  But  the 
Anarchy,  we  may  say,  has  organized  itself: 
Society  is  literally  overset;  its  old  forces 
working  with  mad  activity,  but  in  the 
inverse  order;  destructive  and  self -de- 
structive. 

Curious  to  see  how  all  still  refers  itself 
to  some  head  and  fountain;  not  even  an 
Anarchy  but  must  have  a  center  to  revolve 
round.  It  is  now  some  six  months  since 
the  Committee  of  Salut  Public  came  into 
existence;  some  three  months  since  Danton 
proposed  that  all  power  should  be  given 
it,  and  "a  sum  of  fifty  millions,"  and  the 
"  Government  be  declared  Revolutionary." 
He  himself,  since  that  day,  would  take  no 
hand  in  it,  though  again  and  again 
solicited;  but  sits  private  in  his  place  on 
the  Mountain.  Since  that  day,  the  Nine, 
or  if  they  should  even  rise  to  Twelve, 
have  become  permanent,  always  re-elected 
when  their  term  runs  out;  Salut  Public, 
Surete  Generate  have  assumed  their  ul- 
terior form  and  mode  of  operating. 

Committee  of  Public  Salvation,  as  su- 
preme; of  General  Surety,  as  subaltern: 
these,  like  a  Lesser  and  Greater  Council, 
most  harmonious  hitherto,  have  become 
the  center  of  all  things.  They  ride  this 
Whirlwind;  they,  raised  by  force  of  cir- 
cumstances, insensibly,  very  strangely, 
thither  to  that  dread  height; — and  guide 
it,  and  seem  to  guide  it.  Stranger  set  of 
Cloud-Compellers  the  Earth  never  saw. 
A  Robespierre,  a  Billaud,  a  Collot,  Cou- 
thon,  Saint-Just;  not  to  mention  still 
meaner  Amars,  Vadiers,  hi  Surett  Generale: 


these  are  your  Cloud-Compellers.  Small 
intellectual  talent  is  necessary:  indeed 
where  among  them,  except  in  the  head  of 
Carnot,  busied  organizing  victory,  would 
you  find  any?  The  talent  is  one  of  in- 
stinct rather.  It  is  that  of  divining 
aright  what  this  great  dumb  Whirlwind 
wishes  and  wills;  that  of  willing,  with  more 
frenzy  than  any  one,  what  all  the  world 
wills.  To  stand  at  no  obstacles;  to  heed 
no  considerations,  human  or  divine,  to 
know  well  that,  of  divine  or  human,  there 
is  one  thing  needful,  Triumph  of  the 
Republic,  Destruction  of  the  enemies  of 
the  Republic!  With  this  one  spiritual 
endowment,  and  so  few  others,  it  is  strange 
to  see  how  a  dumb  inarticulately  storming 
Whirlwind  of  things  puts,  as  it  were,  its 
reins  into  your  hand,  and  invites  and  com- 
pels you  to  be  leader  of  it. 

Hard  by,  sits  a  Municipality  of  Paris; 
all  in  red  nightcaps  since  the  fourth  of 
November  last:  a  set  of  men  fully  "on  a 
level  with  circumstances,"  or  even  beyond 
it.  Sleek  Mayor  Pache,  studious  to  be 
safe  hi  the  middle;  Chaumettes,  Heberts, 
Varlets,  and  Henriot  their  great  Com- 
mandant; not  to  speak  of  Vincent  the 
War-clerk,  of  Momoros,  Dobsents  and  such 
like:  all  intent  to  have  Churches  plundered, 
to  have  Reason  adored,  Suspects  cut 
down,  and  the  Revolution  triumph.  Per- 
haps carrying  the  matter  too  far?  Danton 
was  heard  to  grumble  at  the  civic  strophes; 
and  to  recommend  prose  and  decency. 
Robespierre  also  grumbles  that,  in  over- 
turning Superstition,  we  did  not  mean 
to  make  a  religion  of  Atheism.  In  fact, 
your  Chaumette  and  Company  constitute 
a  kind  of  Hyper-Jacobinism,  or  rabid 
"Faction  des  Enrages;"  which  has  given 
orthodox  Patriotism  some  umbrage,  of 
late  months.  To  "know  a  Suspect  on  the 
streets;"  what  is  this  but  bringing  the 
Law  of  the  Suspect  itself  into  Ul  odor? 
Men  half-frantic,  men  zealous  over-much, 
— they  toil  there,  hi  their  red  nightcaps, 
restlessly,  rapidly,  accomplishing  what  of 
Life  is  allotted  them. 

And  the  Forty-four  Thousand  other 
Townships,  each  with  Revolutionary  Com- 
mittee, based  on  Jacobin  Daughter- 


HISTORY 


271 


Society;  enlightened  by  the  spirit  of 
Jacobinism;  quickened  by  the  Forty  Sous 
a-day! — The  French  Constitution  spurned 
always  at  anything  like  Two  Chambers; 
and  yet  behold,  has  it  not  verily  got  Two 
Chambers?  National  Convention,  elected, 
for  one;  Mother  of  Patriotism,  self -elected, 
for  another!  Mother  of  Patriotism  has 
her  Debates  reported  in  the  Moniteur,  as 
important  state-procedures;  which  indis- 
putably they  are.  A  Second  Chamber 
of  Legislature  we  call  this  Mother-Society; 
— if  perhaps  it  were  not  rather  comparable 
to  that  old  Scotch  Body  named  Lords  of  the 
Articles,  without  whose  origination,  and 
signal  given,  the  so-called  Parliament 
could  introduce  no  bill,  could  do  no  work? 
Robespierre  himself,  whose  words  are  a 
law,  opens  his  incorruptible  lips  copiously 
in  the  Jacobins  Hall.  Smaller  Council 
of  Salut  Public,  Greater  Council  of  Surete 
Generate,  all  active  Parties,  come  here  to 
plead;  to  shape  beforehand  what  decision 
they  must  arrive  at,  what  destiny  they 
have  to  expect.  Now  if  a  question  arose, 
Which  of  those  Two  Chambers,  Conven- 
tion, or  Lords  of  the  Articles,  was  the 
stronger  ?  Happily  they  as  yet  go  hand 
in  hand. 

As  for  the  National  Convention,  truly 
it  has  become  a  most  composed  Body. 
Quenched  now  the  old  effervescence:  the 
Seventy-three  locked  in  ward;  once  noisy 
Friends  of  the  Girondins  sunk  all  into  si- 
lent men  of  the  Plain,  called  even  "Frogs 
of  the  Marsh,"  Crapauds  du  Marais ! 
Addresses  come,  Revolutionary  Church- 
plunder  comes;  Deputations,  with  prose 
or  strophes:  these  the  Convention  receives. 
But  beyond  this,  the  Convention  has  one 
thing  mainly  to  do;  to  listen  what  Salut 
Public  proposes,  and  say,  Yea. 

Bazire  followed  by  Chabot,  with  some 
impetuosity,  declared,  one  morning,  that 
this  was  not  the  way  of  a  Free  Assembly. 
"There  ought  to  be  an  Opposition  side, 
a  Cote  Droit,"  cried  Chabot:  "if  none  else 
will  form  it,  I  will.  People  say  to  me, 
You  will  all  get  guillotined  in  your  turn, 
first  you  and  Bazire,  then  Danton,  then 
Robespierre  himself."  So  spake  the  Dis- 
frocked, with  a  loud  voice:  next  week, 


Bazire  and  he  lie  in  the  Abbaye;  wending, 
one  may  fear,  towards  Tinville  and  the 
Axe;  and  "people  say  to  me" — what  seems 
to  be  proving  true!  Bazire's  blood  was 
all  inflamed  with  Revolution  Fever;  with 
coffee  and  spasmodic  dreams.  Chabot, 
again,  how  happy  with  his  rich  Jew- 
Austrian  wife,  late  Fraulein  Frey!  But 
he  lies  in  Prison;  and  his  two  Jew- Austrian 
Brothers-in-Law,  the  Bankers  Frey,  lie 
with  him;  waiting  the  urn  of  doom.  Let 
a  National  Convention,  therefore,  take 
warning,  and  know  its  function.  Let  the 
Convention,  all  as  one  man,  set  its  shoulder 
to  the  work;  not  with  bursts  of  Parliamen- 
tary eloquence,  but  in  quite  other  and 
serviceabler  ways! 

Convention  Commissioners,  what  we 
ought  to  call  Representatives,  "Reprssen- 
tans  on  mission,"  fly,  like  the  Herald 
Mercury,  to  all  points  of  the  Territory; 
carrying  your  behests  far  and  wide.  In 
their  "round  hat,  plumed  with  tricolor 
feathers,  girt  with  flowing  tricolor  taffeta; 
in  close  frock,  tricolor  sash,  sword  and 
jack-boots,"  these  men  are  powerfuller 
than  King  or  Kaiser.  They  say  to  whom- 
so  they  meet,  Do;  and  he  must  do  it:  all 
men's  goods  are  at  their  disposal;  for 
France  is  as  one  huge  City  in  Siege.  They 
smite  with  Requisitions,  and  Forced-loan; 
they  have  the  power  of  life  and  death. 
Saint- Just  and  Lebas  order  the  rich  classes 
of  Strasburg  to  "strip  off  their  shoes,"  and 
send  them  to  the  Armies,  where  as  many 
as  "ten-thousand  pairs"  are  needed. 
Also,  that  within  four-and-twenty  hours, 
"a  thousand  beds"  be  got  ready;  wrapt 
in  matting,  and  sent  under  way.  For  the 
time  presses! — Like  swift  bolts,  issuing 
from  the  fuliginous  Olympus  of  Salut 
Public,  rush  these  men,  oftenest  in  pairs; 
scatter  your  thunder-orders  over  France; 
make  France  one  enormous  Revolutionary 
thunder-cloud. 

CHAPTER  VI 
DO   THY  DUTY 

ACCORDINGLY,  alongside  of  these  bon- 
fires of  Church  balustrades,  and  sounds  of 


272 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


fusillading  and  noyading,  there  rise  quite 
another  sort  of  fires  and  sounds:  Smithy- 
fires  and  Proof-volleys  for  the  manufacture 
of  arms. 

Cut  off  from  Sweden  and  the  world,  the 
Republic  must  learn  to  make  steel  for  it- 
self; and,  by  aid  of  Chemists,  she  has 
learnt  it.  Towns  that  knew  only  iron, 
now  know  steel:  from  their  new  dungeons 
at  Chantilly,  Aristocrats  may  hear  the 
rustle  of  our  new  steel  furnace  there. 
Do  not  bells  transmute  themselves  into 
cannon;  iron  stancheons  into  the  white- 
weapon  (arme  blanche),  by  sword-cutlery? 
The  wheels  of  Langres  scream,  amid  their 
spluttering  fire-halo;  grinding  mere  swords. 
The  stithies  of  Charleville  ring  with  gun- 
making.  What  say  we,  Charleville?  Two 
hundred  and  fifty-eight  Forges  stand  in 
the  open  spaces  of  Paris  itself;  a  hundred 
and  forty  of  them  in  the  Esplanade  of  the 
Invalides,  fifty-four  in  the  Luxembourg 
Garden:  so  many  Forges  stand;  grim 
Smiths  beating  and  forging  at  lock  and 
barrel  there.  The  Clockrnakers  have 
come,  requisitioned,  to  do  the  touch-holes, 
the  hard-solder  and  file-work.  Five  great 
Barges  swing  at  anchor  on  the  Seine 
Stream,  loud  with  boring;  the  great 
press-drills  grating  harsh  thunder  to  the 
'general  ear  and  heart.  And  deft  Stock- 
makers  do  gouge  and  rasp;  and  all  men 
bestir  themselves,  according  to  their  cun- 
ning:— in  the  language  of  hope,  it  is  reck- 
oned that  "a  thousand  finished  muskets 
can  be  delivered  daily."  Chemists  of  the 
Republic  have  taught  us  miracles  of  swift 
tanning:  the  cordwainer  bores  and  stitches; 
— not  of  "wood  and  pasteboard,"  or  he 
shall  answer  it  to  Tinville!  The  women 
sew  tents  and  coats,  the  children  scrape 
surgeons'-lint,  the  old  men  sit  in  the 
market-places;  able  men  are  on  march; 
all  men  in  requisition:  from  Town  to 
Town  flutters,  on  the  Heaven's  winds, 
this  Banner,  THE  FRENCH  PEOPLE  RISEN 
AGAINST  TYEANTS. 

All  which  is  well.  But  now  arises  the 
question:  What  is  to  be  done  for  salt- 
peter? Interrupted  Commerce  and  the 
English  Navy  shut  us  out  from  salt- 
peter; and  without  saltpeter  there  is  no 


gun-powder.  Republican  Science  again 
sits  meditative;  discovers  that  saltpeter 
exists  here  and  there,  though  in  attenuated 
quantity;  that  old  plaster  of  walls  holds 
a  sprinkling  of  it; — that  the  earth  of  the 
Paris  Cellars  holds  a  sprinkling  of  it,  dif- 
fused through  the  common  rubbish;  that 
were  these  dug  up  and  washed,  salt- 
peter might  be  had.  Whereupon,  swiftly, 
see!  the  Citoyens,  with  up-shoved  bonnet 
rouge,  or  with  doffed  bonnet,  and  hair 
toil-wetted;  digging  fiercely,  each  in  his 
own  cellar,  for  saltpeter.  The  Earth- 
heap  rises  at  every  door;  the  Citoyennes 
with  hod  and  bucket  carrying  it  up;  the 
Citoyens,  pith  in  every  muscle,  shovelling 
and  digging:  for  life  and  saltpeter.  Dig, 
my  braves;  and  right  well  speed  ye !  What 
of  saltpeter  is  essential  the  Republic  shall 
not  want. 

Consummation  of  Sansculottism  has 
many  aspects  and  tints:  but  the  brightest 
tint,  really  of  a  solar  or  stellar  brightness 
is  this  which  the  Armies  give  it.  That 
same  fervor  of  Jacobinism,  which  intern- 
ally fills  France  with  hatreds,  suspicions, 
scaffolds  and  Reason-worship,  does,  on  the 
Frontiers,  show  itself  as  a  glorious  pro 
patria  mori.  Ever  since  Dumouriez's 
defection,  three  Convention  Representa- 
tives attend  every  General.  Committee 
of  Salut  has  sent  them;  often  with  this 
Laconic  order  only:  "Do  thy  duty,  Fais 
ton  devoir."  It  is  strange,  under  what 
impediments  the  fire  of  Jacobinism,  like 
other  such  fires,  will  burn.  These  soldiers 
have  shoes  of  wood  and  pasteboard,  or  go 
booted  in  hay-ropes,  in  dead  of  winter; 
they  skewer  a  bast  mat  round  their  should- 
ers, and  are  destitute  of  most  things. 
What  then?  It  is  for  Rights  of  French- 
hood,  of  Manhood,  that  they  fight:  the 
unquenchable  spirit,  here  as  elsewhere, 
works  miracles.  "With  steel  and  bread," 
says  the  Convention  Representative,  "one 
may  get  to  China."  The  Generals  go  fast 
to  the  guillotine;  justly  and  unjustly. 
From  which  what  inference?  This,  among 
others:  That  ill-success  is  death;  that  in 
victory  alone  is  life!  To  conquer  or  die 
is  no  theatrical  palabra,  in  these  circum- 
stances, but  a  practical  truth  and  necessity. 


HISTORY 


273 


All  Girondism,  Halfness,  Compromise 
if  swept  away.  Forward,  ye  Soldiers 
of  the  Republic,  captain  and  man!  Dash, 
with  your  Gaelic  impetuosity,  on  Austria, 
England,  Prussia,  Spain,  Sardinia,  Pitt, 
Cobourg,  York,  and  the  Devil  and  the 
World!  Behind  us  is  but  the  Guillotine; 
before  us  is  Victory,  Apotheosis  and  Mil- 
lennium without  end! 

See,  accordingly,  on  all  Frontiers,  how 
the  Sons  of  Night,  astonished  after  short 
triumph,  do  recoil; — the  Sons  of  the 
Republic  flying  at  them,  with  wild  Qa-ira 
or  Marseillese  Aux  armes,  with  the  temple 
of  cat-o'-mountain,  or  demon  incarnate; 
which  no  Son  of  Night  can  stand!  Spain, 
which  came  bursting  through  the  Pyrenees, 
rustling  with  Bourbon  banners,  and  went 
conquering  here  and  there  for  a  season, 
^alters  at  such  cat-o'-mountain  welcome; 
draws  itself  in  again;  too  happy  now  were 
the  Pyrenees  impassable.  Not  only  does 
Dugommier,  conqueror  of  Toulon,  drive 
Spain  back;  he  invades  Spain.  General 
Dugommier  invades  it  by  the  Eastern 
Pyrenees;  General  Miiller  shall  invade  it 
by  the  Western.  Shall,  that  is  the  word: 
Committee  of  Salut  Public  has  said  it; 
Representative  Cavaignac,  on  mission 
there,  must  see  it  done.  Impossible!  cries 
Miiller. — Infallible !  answers  Cavaignac. 
Difficulty,  impossibility,  is  to  no  purpose. 
"The  Committee  is  deaf  on  that  side  of 
its  head,"  answers  Cavaignac,  "n'entend 
pas  de  cette  oreille  Id.  How  many  wantest 
thou,  of  men,  of  horses,  cannons?  Thou 
shalt  have  them.  Conquerors,  conquered 
or  hanged,  forward  we  must."  Which 
things  also,  even  as  the  Representatives 
spake  them,  were  done.  The  Spring  of 
the  new  Year  sees  Spain  invaded:  and  re- 
doubts are  carried,  and  Passes  and  Heights 
of  the  most  scarped  description;  Spanish 
Field-omcerism  struck  mute  at  such  cat- 
o'-mountain  spirit,  the  cannon  forgetting 
to  fire.  Swept  are  the  Pyrenees;  Town 
after  Town  flies  open,  burst  by  terror  or 
the  petard.  In  the  course  of  another 
year,  Spain  will  crave  Peace;  acknowledge 
its  sins  and  the  Republic;  nay,  in  Madrid, 
there  will  be  joy  as  for  a  victory,  that 
even  Peace  is  got. 


Few  things,  we  repeat,  can  be  notabler 
than  these  Convention  Representatives, 
with  their  power  more  than  kingly.  Nay 
at  bottom  are  they  not  Kings,  Able-men, 
of  a  sort;  chosen  from  the  Seven-hundred 
and  Forty-nine  French  Kings;  with  this 
order,  Do  thy  duty?  Representative  Le- 
vasseur,  of  small  stature,  by  trade  a  mere 
pacific  Surgeon-Accoucheur,  has  mutinies 
to  quell;  mad  hosts  (mad  at  the  Doom  of 
Custine)  bellowing  far  and  wide;  he  alone 
amid  them,  the  one  small  Representative, 
— small,  but  as  hard  as  flint,  which  also 
carries^re  in  it !  So  too,  at  Hondschooten, 
far  hi  the  afternoon,  he  declares  that  the 
Battle  is  not  lost;  that  it  must  be  gained; 
and  fights,  himself,  with  his  own  obstetric 
hand; — horse  shot  under  him,  or  say  on 
foot,  "up  to  the  haunches  in  tide-water;" 
cutting  stocca.do  and  passado  there,  in 
defiance  of  Water,  Earth,  Air  and  Fire, 
the  choleric  little  Representative  that  he 
was!  Whereby,  as  natural,  Royal  High- 
ness of  York  had  to  withdraw, — occasion- 
ally at  full  gallop;  like  to  be  swallowed 
by  the  tide:  and  his  Siege  of  Dunkirk 
became  a  dream,  realizing  only  much  loss 
of  beautiful  siege-artillery  and  of  brave 
lives. 

General  Houchard,  it  would  appear, 
stood  behind  a  hedge  on  this  Hondschoo- 
ten occasion;  wherefore  they  have  since 
guillotined  him.  A  new  General  Jourdan, 
late  Sergeant  Jourdan,  commands  in  his 
stead:  he,  in  long-winded  Battles  of 
Watigny,  "murderous  artillery-fire  ming- 
ling itself  with  sound  of  Revolutionary 
battle-hymns,"  forces  Austria  behind  the 
Sambre  again;  has  hopes  of  purging  the 
soil  of  Liberty.  With  hard  wrestling,  with 
artillerying  and  $a-ira-'mg,  it  shall  be 
done.  In  the  course  of  a  new  Summer, 
Valenciennes  will  see  itself  beleaguered; 
Conde  beleaguered;  whatsoever  is  yet  in 
the  hands  of  Austria  beleaguered  and 
bombarded:  nay,  by  Convention  Decree, 
we  even  summon  them  all  "either  to  sur- 
render in  twenty-four  hours,  or  else  be 
put  to  the  sword;" — a  high  saying,  which, 
though  it  remains  unfulfilled,  may  show 
what  spirit  one  is  of. 

Representative    Drouet,    as    an    Old- 


274 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


dragoon,  could  fight  by  a  kind  of  second 
nature:  but  he  was  unlucky.  Him,  in  a 
night-foray  at  Maubeuge,  the  Austrians 
took  alive,  in  October  last.  They  stript 
him  almost  naked,  he  says;  making  a  show 
of  him,  as  King-taker  of  Varennes.  They 
flung  him  into  carts;  sent  him  far  into  the 
interior  of  Cimmeria,  to  "a  Fortress  called 
Spitzberg"  on  the  Danube  River;  and  left 
him  there,  at  an  elevation  of  perhaps  a 
hundred  and  fifty  feet,  to  his  own  bitter 
reflections.  Reflections;  and  also  devices! 
For  the  indomitable  Old-dragoon  con- 
structs wing-machinery,  of  Paperkite; 
saws  window-bars;  determines  to  fly  down. 
He  will  seize  a  boat,  will  follow  the  River's 
course;  land  somewhere  hi  Crim  Tartary, 
in  the  Black-Sea  or  Constantinople  region: 
d  la  Sindbad!  Authentic  History,  ac- 
cordingly, looking  far  into  Cimmeria, 
discerns  dimly  a  phenomenon.  In  the 
dead  night-watches,  the  Spitzberg  sentry 
is  near  fainting  with  terror:  —  Is  it  a  huge 
vague  Portent  descending  through  the 
night-air?  It  is  a  huge  National  Repre- 
sentative Old-dragoon,  descending  by 
Paperkite;  too  rapidly,  alas!  For  Drouet 
had  taken  with  him  "a  small  provision- 
store,  twenty  pounds  weight  or  thereby;" 
which  proved  accelerative:  so  he  fell, 
fracturing  his  leg;  and  lay  there,  moaning, 
till  day  dawned,  till  you  could  discern 
clearly  that  he  was  not  a  Portent  but  a 
Representative. 

Or  see  Saint-  Just,  in  the  Lines  of  Weis- 
sembourg,  though  physically  of  a  timid 
apprehensive  nature,  how  he  charges 
with  his  "Alsatian  Peasants  armed  hastily" 
for  the  nonce;  the  solemn  face  of  him 
blazing  into  flame;  his  black  hair  and  tri- 
color hat-taffeta  flowing  in  the  breeze! 
These  our  Lines  of  Weissembourg  were 
indeed  forced,  and  Prussia  and  the  Emi- 
grants rolled  through:  but  we  re-force  the 
Lines  of  Weissembourg;  and  Prussia  and 
the  Emigrants  roll  back  again  still  faster,  — 
hurled  with  bayonet-charges  and  fiery 


Ci-devant  Sergeant  Pichegru,  ci-devant 
Sergeant  Hoche,  risen  now  to  be  Generals, 
have  done  wonders  here.  Tall  Pichegru 
was  meant  for  the  Church;  was  Teacher 


of  Mathematics  once,  in  Brienne  School, — 
his  remarkablest  Pupil  there  was  the  Boy 
Napoleon  Buonaparte.  He  then,  not  in 
the  sweetest  humor,  enlisted,  exchanging 
ferula  for  musket,  and  had  got  the  length 
of  the  halberd,  beyond  which  nothing 
could  be  hoped;  when  the  Bastille  barrier 
falling  made  passage  for  him,  and  he  is 
here.  Hoche  bore  a  hand  at  the  literal 
overturn  of  the  Bastille;  he  was,  as  we  saw, 
a  Sergeant  of  the  Gardes  Francises,  spend- 
ing his  pay  in  rushlights  and  cheap  edi- 
tions of  books.  How  the  Mountains  are 
burst,  and  many  an  Enceladus  is  disem- 
prisoned;  and  Captains  founding  on  Four 
parchments  of  Nobility  are  blown  with 
their  parchments  across  the  Rhine,  into 
Lunar  Limbo! 

What  high  feats  of  arms,  therefore,  were 
done  hi  these  Fourteen  Armies;  and  how, 
for  love  of  Liberty  and  hope  of  Promotion, 
lowborn  valor  cut  its  desperate  way  to 
Generalship;  and,  from  the  central  Carnot 
in  Salut  Public  to  the  outmost  drummer 
on  the  Frontiers,  men  strove  for  their 
Republic,  let  Readers  fancy.  The  snows 
of  Whiter,  the  flowers  of  Summer  con- 
tinue to  be  stained  with  warlike  blood. 
Gaelic  impetuosity  mounts  ever  higher 
with  victory;  spirit  of  Jacobinism  weds 
itself  to  national  vanity:  the  Soldiers  of 
the  Republic  are  becoming,  as  we  prophe- 
sied, very  Sons  of  Fire.  Barefooted,  bare- 
backed: but  with  bread  and  iron  you  can 
get  to  China!  It  is  one  Nation  against 
the  whole  world;  but  the  Nation  has  that 
within  her  which  the  whole  world  will  not 
conquer.  Cimmeria,  astonished,  recoils 
faster  or  slower;  all  round  the  Republic 
there  rises  fiery,  as  it  were,  a  magic  ring 
of  musket- volleying  and  qa-ira-ing.  Maj- 
esty of  Prussia,  as  Majesty  of  Spain,  will 
by  and  by  acknowledge  his  sins  and  the 
Republic;  and  make  a  Peace  of  Bale. 

Foreign  Commerce,  Colonies,  Factories 
in  the  East  and  in  the  West,  are  fallen  or 
falling  into  the  hands  of  sea-ruling  Pitt, 
enemy  of  human  nature.  Nevertheless 
what  sound  is  this  that  we  hear,  on  the 
first  of  June  1794;  sound  as  of  war- thunder 
borne  from  the  Ocean  too,  of  tone  most 


HISTORY 


275 


piercing?  War-thunders  from  off  the 
Brest  waters:  Villaret-Joyeuse  and  English 
Howe,  after  long  manoeuvring,  have 
ranked  themselves  there;  and  are  belching 
fire.  The  enemies  of  human  nature  are 
on  their  own  element,  cannot  be  con- 
quered; cannot  be  kept  from  conquering. 
Twelve  hours  of  raging  cannonade;  sun 
now  sinking  westward  through  the  battle- 
smoke:  six  French  Ships  taken,  the  Battle 
lost;  what  Ship  soever  can  still  sail,  making 
off!  But  how  is  it,  then,  with  that  Vengeur 
Ship,  she  neither  strikes  nor  makes  off? 
She  is  lamed,  she  cannot  make  off;  strike 
she  will  not.  Fire  rakes  her  fore  and 
aft  from  victorious  enemies;  the  Vengeur 
is  sinking.  Strong  are  ye,  Tyrants  of  the 
sea;  yet  we  also,  are  we  weak?  Lo! 
all  flags,  streamers,  jacks,  every  rag  of 
tricolor  that  will  yet  run  on  rope,  fly 
rustling  aloft:  the  whole  crew  crowds  to 
the  upper  deck;  and  with  universal  soul- 
maddening  yell,  shouts  Vive  la  Republique, 
— sinking,  sinking.  She  staggers,  she 
lurches,  her  last  drunk  whirl;  Ocean  yawns 
abysmal;  down  rushes  the  Vengeur,  carry- 
ing Vive  la  Republique  along  with  her, 
unconquerable,  into  Eternity.  Let  foreign 
Despots  think  of  that.  There  is  an  Un- 
conquerable in  man,  when  he  stands  on  his 
Rights  of  Man:  let  Despots  and  Slaves 
and  all  people  know  this,  and  only  them 
that  stand  on  the  Wrongs  of  Man  tremble 
to  know  it. — So  has  History  written,  noth- 
ing doubting,  of  the  sunk  Vengeur. 

Reader!    Mendez     Pinto,     Mtin- 

chausen,  Cagliostro,  Psalmanazar  have 
been  great;  but  they  are  not  the  greatest. 
O  Barrere,  Barrere,  Anacreon  of  the  Guillo- 
tine! must  inquisitive  pictorial  History, 
in  a  new  edition,  ask  again,  "How  is  it 
with  the  Vengeur"  in  this  its  glorious 
suicidal  sinking;  and,  with  resentful  brush, 
dash  a  bend-sinister  of  contumelious  lamp- 
black through  thee  and  it?  Alas,  alas! 
The  Vengeur,  after  fighting  bravely,  did 
sink  altogether  as  other  ships  do,  her 
captain  and  above  two  hundred  of  her 
crew  escaping  gladly  in  British  boats; 
and  this  same  enormous  inspiring  Feat, 
and  rumor  "of  sound  most  piercing," 
turns  out  to  be  an  enormous  inspiring 


Non-entity,  extant  nowhere  save,  as 
falsehood,  in  the  brain  of  Barrere!  Ac- 
tually so.  Founded,  like  the  World  itself, 
on  Nothing;  proved  by  Convention  Report, 
by  solemn  Convention  Decree  and  De- 
crees, and  wooden  "Model  of  the  Vengeur;" 
believed,  bewept,  besung  by  the  whole 
French  People  to  this  hour,  it  may  be 
regarded  as  Barrere's  masterpiece;  the 
largest,  most  inspiring  piece  of  blague 
manufactured,  for  some  centuries,  by 
any  man  or  nation.  As  such,  and  not 
otherwise,  be  it  henceforth  memorable. 

CHAPTER  VII 
FLAME-PICTURE 

IN  THIS  manner,  mad-blazing  with  flame 
of  all  imaginable  tints,  from  the  red  of 
Tophet  to  the  stellar-bright,  blazes  off 
this  Consummation  of  Sansculottism. 

But  the  hundredth  part  of  the  things 
that  were  done,  and  the  thousandth  part 
of  the  things  that  were  projected  and 
decreed  to  be  done,  would  tire  the  tongue 
of  History.  Statue  of  the  Peuple  Souve- 
rain,  high  as  Strasburg  Steeple;  which 
shall  fling  its  shadow  from  the  Pont  Neuf 
over  Jardin  National  and  Convention 
Hall; — enormous,  in  Painter  David's 
Head!  With  other  the  like  enormous 
Statues  not  a  few:  realized  in  paper  De- 
cree. For,  indeed,  the  Statue  of  Liberty 
herself  is  still  but  Plaster,  in  the  Place 
de  la  Revolution.  Then  Equalization  of 
Weights  and  Measures,  with  decimal  divi- 
sion; Institutions,  of  Music  and  of  much 
else;  Institute  in  general;  School  of  Arts, 
School  of  Mars,  Eleves  de  la  Patrie, 
Normal  Schools:  amid  such  Gun-boring, 
Altar-burning,  Saltpeter-digging,  and  mi- 
raculous improvements  in  Tannery! 

What,  for  example,  is  this  that  Engineer 
Chappe  is  doing,  in  the  Park  of  Vincennes? 
In  the  Park  of  Vincennes;  and  onwards, 
they  say,  in  the  Park  of  Lepelletier  Saint- 
Fargeau  the  assassinated  Deputy;  and  still 
onwards  to  the  Heights  of  Ecouen  and 
further,  he  has  scaffolding  set  up,  has 
posts  driven  in;  wooden  arms  with  elbow- 
joints  are  jerking  and  fugling  in  the  air, 


276 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


in  the  most  rapid  mysterious  manner! 
Citoyens  ran  up,  suspicious.  Yes,  O 
Citoyens,  we  are  signalling:  it  is  a  device 
this,  worthy  of  the  Republic;  a  thing  for 
what  we  will  call  Far-writing  without  the 
aid  of  postbags;  in  Greek  it  shall  be  named 
Telegraph. — Telegraplie  sacre  I  answers 
Citoyenism:  For  writing  to  Traitors,  to 
Austria? — and  tears  it  down.  Chappe  had 
to  escape,  and  get  a  new  Legislative  De- 
cree. Nevertheless  he  has  accomplished 
it,  the  indefatigable  Chappe:  this  his 
Far-writer,  with  its  wooden  arms  and 
elbow-joints,  can  intelligibly  signal;  and 
lines  of  them  are  set  up,  to  the  North 
Frontiers  and  elsewhither.  On  an  Autumn 
evening  of  the  Year  Two,  Far-writer  hav- 
ing just  written  that  Conde  Town  has 
surrendered  to  us,  we  send  from  the 
Tuileries  Convention-Hall  this  response  in 
the  shape  of  Decree:  "The  name  of  Conde 
is  changed  to  Nord-Libre,  North-Free. 
The  Army  of  the  North  ceases  not  to  merit 
well  of  the  country." — To  the  admiration 
of  men!  For  lo,  in  some  half  hour,  while 
the  Convention  yet  debates,  there  arrives 
this  new  answer:  "I  inform  thee,  je 
t'annonce,  Citizen  President,  that  the 
Decree  of  Convention,  ordering  change  of 
the  name  Conde  into  North-Free;  and  the 
other,  declaring  that  the  Army  of  the 
North  ceases  not  to  merit  well  of  the  coun- 
try; are  transmitted  and  acknowledged 
by  Telegraph.  I  have  instructed  my 
Officer  at  LUle  to  forward  them  to  North- 
Free  by  express.  Signed,  CHAPPE." 

Or  see,  over  Fleurus  in  the  Netherlands, 
where  General  Jourdan,  having  now  swept 
the  soil  of  Liberty,  and  advanced  thus  far, 
is  just  about  to  fight,  and  sweep  or  be 
swept,  hangs  there  not  in  the  Heaven's 
Vault,  some  Prodigy,  seen  by  Austrian 
eyes  and  spy-glasses:  in  the  similitude  of 
an  enormous  Windbag,  with  netting  and 
enormous  Saucer  depending  from  it?  A 
Jove's  Balance,  O  ye  Austrian  spy- 
glasses? One  saucer-scale  of  a  Jove's 
Balance;  your  poor  Austrian  scale  having 
kicked  itself  quite  aloft,  out  of  sight? 
By  Heaven,  answer  the  spy-glasses,  it  is  a 
Montgolfier,  a  Balloon,  and  they  are 
making  signals!  Austrian  cannon  battery 


barks  at  this  Montgolfier;  harmless  as  dog 
at  the  Moon:  the  Montgolfier  makes  its 
signals;  detects  what  Austrian  ambuscade 
there  may  be,  and  descends  at  its  ease. — 
What  will  not  these  devils  incarnate  con- 
trive? 

On  the  whole,  is  it  not,  0  Reader,  one 
of  the  strangest  Flame-Pictures  that  ever 
painted  itself;  flaming  off  there,  on  its 
ground  of  Guillotine-black?  And  the 
nightly  Theaters  are  Twenty- three;  and 
the  Salons  de  danse  are  Sixty;  full  of  mere 
Egalite,  Fraternite"  and  Carmagnole.  And 
Section  Committee-rooms  are  Forty-eight, 
redolent  of  tobacco  and  brandy:  vigorous 
with  twenty-pence  a-day,  coercing  the 
Suspect.  And  the  Houses  of  Arrest  are 
Twelve,  for  Paris  alone;  crowded  and  even 
crammed.  And  at  all  turns,  you  need 
your  "Certificate  of  Civism;"  be  it  for 
going  out,  or  for  coming  in;  nay  without 
it  you  cannot,  for  money,  get  your  daily 
ounces  of  bread.  Dusky  red-capped 
Bakers'-queues;  wagging  themselves;  nof 
in  silence !  For  we  still  live  by  Maximum, 
in  all  things;  waited  on  by  these  two, 
Scarcity  and  Confusion.  The  faces  of 
men  are  darkened  with  suspicion;  with 
suspecting,  or  being  suspect.  The  streets 
lie  unswept;  the  ways  unmended.  Law 
has  shut  her  Books;  speaks  little,  save 
impromptu,  through  the  throat  of  Tinville. 
Crimes  go  unpunished;  not  crimes  against 
the  Revolution.  "The  number  of  found- 
ling children,"  as  some  compute,  "is 
doubled." 

How  silent  now  sits  Royalism;  sits  all 
Aristocratism;  Respectability  that  kept 
its  Gig!  The  honor  now,  and  the  safety, 
is  to  Poverty,  not  to  Wealth.  Your  Citi- 
zen, who  would  be  fashionable,  walks 
abroad,  with  his  Wife  on  his  arm,  in  red 
wool  nightcap,  black-shag  spencer,  and 
carmagnole  complete.  Aristocratism 

crouches  low,  in  what  shelter  is  still  left; 
submitting  to  all  requisitions,  vexations; 
too  happy  to  escape  with  life.  Ghastly 
chateaus  stare  on  you  by  the  wayside; 
disroofed,  dis windowed;  which  the  Na- 
tional Housebroker  is  peeling  for  the  lead 
and  ashlar.  The  old  tenants  hover  dis- 
consolate, over  the  Rhine  with  Conde;  a 


HISTORY 


277 


spectacle  to  men.  Ci-devant  Seigneur, 
sxquisite  in  palate,  will  become  an  ex- 
quisite Restaurateur  Cook  in  Hamburg; 
Ci-devant  Madame,  exquisite  in  dress,  &, 
successful  Marchande  des  Modes  in  London. 
In  Newgate-Street,  you  meet  M.  le  Mar- 
quis, with  a  rough  deal  on  his  shoulder, 
adze  and  jack-plane  under  arm;  he  has 
taken  to  the  joiner  trade;  it  being  necessary 
to  live  (jaut  vivre). — Higher  than  all 
Frenchmen  the  domestic  Stockjobber  flour- 
ishes,— in  a  day  of  Paper-money.  The 
Farmer  also  flourishes:  "Farmers'  houses," 
says  Mercier,  "have  become  like  Pawn- 
brokers' shops;"  all  manner  of  furniture, 
apparel,  vessels  of  gold  and  silver  accumu- 
late themselves  there:  bread  is  precious. 
The  Farmer's  rent  is  Paper-money,  and  he 
alone  of  men  has  bread:  Farmer  is  better 
than  Landlord,  and  will  himself  become 
Landlord. 

And  daily,  we  say,  like  a  black  Specter, 
silently  through  that  Life-tumult,  passes 
the  Revolution  Cart;  writing  on  the  walls 
its  MENE,  MENE,  Thou  art  weighed,  and 
found  wanting!  A  Specter  with  which 
one  has  grown  familiar.  Men  have  ad- 
justed themselves:  complaint  issues  not 
from  that  Death-tumbril.  Weak  women 
and  ci-devants,  their  plumage  and  finery 
all  tarnished,  sit  there ;  with  a  silent  gaze, 
as  if  looking  into  the  Infinite  Black.  The 
once  light  lip  wears  a  curl  of  irony,  uttering 
no  word;  and  the  Tumbril  fares  along. 
They  may  be  guilty  before  Heaven,  or  not; 
they  are  guilty,  we  suppose,  before  the 
Revolution.  Then,  does  not  the  Republic 
"coin  money"  of  them,  with  its  great  axe? 
Red  nightcaps  howl  dire  approval:  the 
rest  of  Paris  looks  on;  if  with  a  sigh,  that 
is  much:  Fellow-creatures  whom  sighing 
cannot  help;  whom  black  Necessity  and 
Tinville  have  clutched. 

One  other  thing,  or  rather  two  other 
things,  we  will  still  mention;  and  no  more: 
The  Blond  Perukes;  the  Tannery  at 
Meudon.  Great  talk  is  of  these  Perruques 
blondes:  O  Reader,  they  are  made  from 
the  Heads  of  Guillotined  women!  The 
locks  of  a  Duchess,  in  this  way,  may  come 
to  cover  the  scalp  of  a  Cordwainer;  her 
blonde  German  Frankism  his  black  Gaelic 


poll,  if  it  be  bald.  Or  they  may  be  worn 
affectionately,  as  relics;  rendering  one 
Suspect?  Citizens  use  them,  not  without 
mockery ,  oi  a  rather  cannibal  sort. 

Still  deeper  into  one's  heart  goes  that 
Tannery  at  Meudon;  not  mentioned 
among  the  other  miracles  of  tanning !  "At 
Meudon,"  says  Montgaillard  with  con- 
siderable calmness,  "there  was  a  Tannery 
of  Human  Skins;  such  of  the  Guillotined 
as  seemed  worth  flaying:  of  which  per- 
fectly good  wash-leather  was  made;"  for 
breeches,  and  other  uses.  The  skin  of  the 
men,  he  remarks,  was  superior  in  tough- 
ness (consistance)  and  quality  to  shamoy; 
that  of  the  women  was  good  for  almost 
nothing,  being  so  soft  in  texture! — History 
looking  back  over  Cannibalism,  through 
Purchases  Pilgrims  and  all  early  and  late 
Records,  will  perhaps  find  no  terrestrial 
Cannibalism  of  a  sort,  on  the  whole,  so 
detestable.  It  is  a  manufactured,  soft- 
feeling,  quietly  elegant  sort;  a  sort  perfide  ! 
Alas  then,  is  man's  civilization  only  a 
wrappage,  through  which  the  savage  na- 
ture of  him  can  still  burst,  infernal  as 
ever?  Nature  still  makes  him;  and  ha 
an  Infernal  in  her  as  well  as  a  Celestial. 


BOOK  VI 

CHAPTER  II 
DANTON,  NO  WEAKNESS 

DANTON,  meanwhile,  has  been  pressingly 
sent  for  from  Arcis:  he  must  return  in- 
stantly, cried  Camille,  cried  Phelippeaux 
and  Friends,  who  scented  danger  in  the 
wind.  Danger  enough!  A  Dan  ton,  a 
Robespierre,  chief-products  of  a  victorious 
Revolution,  are  now  arrived  in  immediate 
front  of  one  another;  must  ascertain  how 
they  will  live  together,  rule  together. 
One  conceives  easily  the  deep  mutual 
incompatibility  that  divided  these  twv 
with  what  terror  of  feminine  hatred  thv. 
poor  sea-green  Formula  looked  at  the 
monstrous  colossal  Reality,  and  grew 
greener  to  behold  him; — the  Reality, 
again,  struggling  to  think  no  ill  of  a  chief- 
product  of  the  Revolution;  yet  feeling 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


at  bottom  that  such  chief-product  was 
little  other  than  a  chief  windbag,  blown 
large  by  Popular  air;  not  a  man,  with  the 
heart  of  a  man,  but  a  poor  spasmodic 
incorruptible  pedant,  with  a  logic-formula 
instead  of  heart;  of  Jesuit  or  Methodist- 
Parson  nature;  full  of  sincere-cant,  in- 
corruptibility, of  virulence,  poltroonery; 
barren  as  the  eastwind!  Two  such  chief- 
products  are  too  much  for  one  Revolution. 
Friends,  trembling  at  the  results  of  a 
quarrel  on  their  part,  brought  them  to 
meet.  "It  is  right,"  said  Danton,  swal- 
lowing much  indignation,  "to  repress  the 
Royalists:  but  we  should  not  strike  except 
where  it  is  useful  to  the  Republic;  we 
should  not  confound  the  innocent  and  the 
guilty." — "And  who  told  you,"  replied 
Robespierre  with  a  poisonous  look,  "that 
one  innocent  person  had  perished?" — 
"Quoi,"  said  Danton,  turning  round  to 
Friend  Paris  self-named  Fabricius,  Jury- 
man in  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal: 
"Quoi,  not  one  innocent?  What  sayest 
thou  of  it,  Fabricius?  " — Friends,  Wester- 
mann,  this  Paris  and  others  urged  him  to 
show  himself,  to  ascend  the  Tribune  and 
act.  The  man  Danton  was  not  prone  to 
show  himself;  to  act,  or  uproar  for  his  own 
safety.  A  man  of  careless,  large,  hoping 
nature;  a  large  nature  that  could  rest: 
he  would  sit  whole  hours,  they  say,  hearing 
Camille  talk,  and  liked  nothing  so  well. 
Friends  urged  him  to  fly;  his  Wife  urged 
him:  "Whither  fly?"  answered  he:  "If 
freed  France  cast  me  out,  there  are  only 
dungeons  for  me  elsewhere.  One  carries 
not  his  country  with  him  at  the  sole  of 
his  shoe!"  The  man  Danton  sat  still. 
Not  even  the  arrestment  of  Friend 
Herault,  a  member  of  Salut,  yet  arrested 
by  Salut,  can  rouse  Danton.— On  the  night 
of  the  3oth  of  March  Juryman  Paris  came 
rushing  in;  haste  looking  through  his  eyes: 
A  clerk  of  the  Salut  Committee  had  told 
him  Danton's  warrant  was  made  out,  he 
is  to  be  arrested  this  very  night!  En- 
treaties there  are  and  trepidation,  of 
poor  Wife,  of  Paris  and  Friends:  Danton 
sat  silent  for  a  while;  then  answered, 
" Us  n'oseraient,  They  dare  not;"  and 
would  take  no  measures.  Murmuring 


"They  dare  not,"  he  goes  to  sleep  as 
usual. 

And  yet,  on  the  morrow  morning, 
strange  rumor  spreads  over  Paris  City: 
Danton,  Camille,  Phelippeaux,  Lacroix 
have  been  arrested  overnight!  It  is 
verily  so :  the  corridors  of  the  Luxembourg 
were  all  crowded,  Prisoners  crowding 
forth  to  see  this  giant  of  the  Revolution 
enter  among  them.  "Messieurs,"  said 
Danton  politely,  "I  hoped  soon  to  have 
got  you  all  out  of  this:  but  here  I  am 
myself;  and  one  sees  not  where  it  will  end." 
— Rumor  may  spread  over  Paris:  the 
Convention  clusters  itself  into  groups, 
wide-eyed,  whispering,  "Danton  ar- 
rested!" Who  then  is  safe?  Legendre, 
mounting  the  Tribune,  utters,  at  his  own 
peril,  a  feeble  word  for  him;  moving  that 
he  be  heard  at  that  Bar  before  indictment; 
but  Robespierre  frowns  him  down:  "Did 
you  hear  Chabot,  or  Bazire?  Would  you 
have  two  weights  and  measures?"  Le- 
gendre cowers  low:  Danton,  like  the  others^ 
must  take  his  doom. 

Danton's  Prison-thoughts  were  curious 
to  have,  but  are  not  given  in  any  quantity: 
indeed  few  such  remarkable  men  have 
been  left  so  obscure  to  us  as  this  Titan 
of  the  Revolution.  He  was  heard  to 
ejaculate:  "This  time  twelvemonth,  I  was 
moving  the  creation  of  that  same  Revolu- 
tionary Tribunal.  I  crave  pardon  for  it 
of  God  and  man.  They  are  all  Brothers 
Cain;  Brissot  would  have  had  me  guillo- 
tined as  Robespierre  now  will.  I  leave 
the  whole  business  in  a  frightful  welter 
(gackis  epouvantable):  not  one  of  them 
understands  anything  of  government. 
Robespierre  will  follow  me;  I  drag  down 
Robespierre.  0,  it  were  better  to  be  a 
poor  fisherman  than  to  meddle  with 
governing  of  men." — Camille's  young 
beautiful  Wife,  who  had  made  him  rich 
not  in  money  alone,  hovers  round  the 
Luxembourg,  like  a  disembodied  spirit, 
day  and  night.  Camille's  stolen  letters 
to  her  still  exist;  stained  with  the  mark  of 
his  tears.  "  I  carry  my  head  like  a  Saint- 
Sacrament?"  so  Saint- Just  was  heard  to 
mutter:  "perhaps  he  will  carry  his  like  a 
Saint-Dennis." 


HISTORY 


270 


Unhappy  Danton,  thou  still  unhappier 
light  Camille,  once  light  Procureur  de  la 
Lanterne,  ye  also  have  arrived,  then,  at 
the  Bourne  of  Creation,  where,  like  Ulysses 
Polytlas  at  the  limit  and  utmost  Gades 
of  his  voyage,  gazing  into  that  dim  Waste 
beyond  Creation,  a  man  does  see  the  Shade 
of  his  Mother,  pale,  ineffectual; — and  days 
when  his  Mother  nursed  and  wrapped  him 
are  ail-too  sternly  contrasted  with  this 
day!  Danton,  Camille,  Herault,  Wester- 
mann,  and  the  others,  very  strangely 
massed  up  with  Bazires,  Swindler  Cha- 
bots,  Fabre  d'Eglantines,  Banker  Freys,  a 
most  motley  Batch,  "Fournee"  as  such 
things  will  be  called,  stand  ranked  at  the 
Bar  of  Tinville.  It  is  the  26.  of  April 
1794.  Danton  has  had  but  three  days  to 
lie  in  Prison;  for  the  time  presses. 

What  is  your  name?  place  of  abode? 
and  the  like,  Fouquier  asks;  according  to 
formality.  "My  name  is  Danton,"  an- 
swers he;  "a  name  tolerably  known  in  the 
Revolution:  my  abode  will  soon  be  Anni- 
hilation (dans  le  Ncant) ;  but  I  shall  live  in 
the  Pantheon  of  History."  A  man  will 
endeavor  to  say  something  forcible,  be  it 
by  nature  or  not!  Herault  mentions  epi- 
grammatically  that  he  "sat  in  this  Hall, 
and  was  detested  of  Parlementeers." 
Camille  makes  answer,  "My  age  is  that  of 
the  bon  Sansculotte  Jesus;  an  age  fatal  to 
Revolutionists."  O  Camille,  Camille! 
And  yet  in  that  Divine  Transaction,  let 
us  say,  there  did  lie,  among  other  things, 
the  fatallest  Reproof  ever  uttered  here 
below  to  Worldly  Right-honorableness; 
"  the  highest  fact,"  so  devout  Novalis  calls 
it,  "in  the  Rights  of  Man."  Camille's 
real  age,  it  would  seem,  is  thirty-four. 
Danton  is  one  year  older. 

Some  five  months  ago,  the  Trial  of  the 
Twenty-two  Girondins  was  the  greatest 
that  Fouquier  had  then  done.  But  here 
is  a  still  greater  to  do;  a  thing  which  tasks 
the  whole  faculty  of  Fouquier;  which 
makes  the  very  heart  of  him  waver.  For 
it  is  the  voice  of  Danton  that  reverberates 
now  from  these  domes;  in  passionate 
words,  piercing  with  their  wild  sincerity, 
winged  with  wrath.  Your  best  Witnesses 
he  shivers  into  ruin  at  one  stroke.  He 


demands  that  the  Committee-men  them- 
selves come  as  Witnesses,  as  Accusers; 
he  "will  cover  them  with  ignominy." 
He  raises  his  huge  stature,  he  shakes  his 
huge  black  head,  fire  flashes  from  the  eyes 
of  him, — piercing  to  all  Republican  hearts: 
so  that  the  very  Galleries,  though  we 
filled  them  by  ticket,  murmur  sympathy; 
and  are  like  to  burst  down,  and  raise  the 
People,  and  deliver  him!  He  complains 
loudly  that  he  is  classed  with  Chabots, 
with  swindling  Stock-jobbers;  that  his 
Indictment  is  a  list  of  platitudes  and 
horrors.  "Danton  hidden  on  the  loth  of 
August?"  reverberates  he,  with  the  roar 
of  a  lion  in  the  toils:  "where  are  the  men 
that  had  to  press  Danton  to  show  himself, 
that  day?  Where  are  these  high-gifted 
souls  of  whom  he  borrowed  energy? 
Let  them  appear,  these  Accusers  of  mine: 
I  have  all  the  clearness  of  my  self-posses- 
sion when  I  demand  them.  I  will  un- 
mask the  three  shallow  scoundrels," 
les  trois  plats  coquins,  Saint- Just,  Couthon, 
Lebas,  "who  fawn  on  Robespierre,  and 
lead  him  towards  his  destruction  Let 
them  produce  themselves  here;  I  will 
plunge  them  into  Nothingness,  out  of 
which  they  ought  never  to  have  risen." 
The  agitated  President  agitates  his  bell; 
enjoins  calmness,  in  a  vehement  manner: 
"What  is  it  to  thee  how  I  defend  myself?" 
cries  the  other:  "  the  right  of  dooming  me  is 
thine  always.  The  voice  of  a  man  speak- 
ing for  his  honor  and  his  life  may  well 
drown  the  jingling  of  thy  bell!"  Thus 
Danton,  higher  and  higher;  till  the  lion 
voice  of  him  "dies  away  in  his  throat:" 
speech  will  not  utter  what  is  in  that  man. 
The  Galleries  murmur  ominously;  the 
first  day's  Session  is  over. 

O  Tinville,  President  Herman,  what 
will  ye  do?  They  have  two  days  more 
of  it,  by  strictest  Revolutionary  Law. 
The  Galleries  already  murmur.  If  this 
Danton  were  to  burst  your  mesh  work! — 
Very  curious  indeed  to  consider.  It  turns 
on  a  hair:  and  what  a  Hoitytoity  were 
there,  Justice  and  Culprit  changing  places; 
and  the  whole  History  of  France  running 
changed!  For  in  France  there  is  this 
Danton  only  that  could  still  try  to  govern 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


France.  He  only,  the  wild  amorphous 
Titan; — and  perhaps  that  other  olive- 
complexioned  individual,  the  Artillery- 
Officer  at  Toulon,  whom  we  left  pushing 
his  fortune  in  the  South? 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
matters  looking  not  better  but  worse  and 
worse,  Fouquier  and  Herman,  distraction 
in  their  aspect,  rush  over  to  Salut  Public. 
What  is  to  be  done?  Salut  Public  rapidly 
concocts  a  new  Decree;  whereby  if  men 
"insult  Justice,"  they  may  be  "thrown 
out  of  the  Debates."  For  indeed,  withal, 
is  there  not  "a  Plot  in  the  Luxembourg 
Prison?"  Ci-devant  General  Dillon,  and 
others  of  the  Suspect,  plotting  with  Ca- 
mille's  Wife  to  distribute  assignats;  to 
force  the  Prisons,  overset  the  Republic? 
Citizen  Laflotte,  himself  Suspect  but  de- 
siring enfranchisement,  has  reported  said 
Plot  for  us: — a  report  that  may  bear  fruit! 
Enough,  on  the  morrow  morning,  an 
obedient  Convention  passes  this  Decree. 
Salut  rushes  off  with  it  to  the  aid  of  Tin- 
ville,  reduced  now  almost  to  extremities. 
And  so,  Hors  de  Debats,  Out  of  the  De- 
bates, ye  insolents!  Policemen  do  your 
duty!  In  such  manner,  with  a  dead-lift 
effort,  Salut,  Tinville,  Herman,  Leroi 
Dix-Aout,  and  all  stanch  jurymen  setting 
heart  and  shoulder  to  it,  the  Jury  becomes 
"sufficiently  instructed;"  Sentence  is 
passed,  is  sent  by  an  Official,  and  torn  and 
trampled  on:  Death  this  day.  It  is  the 
5th  of  April  1794.  Camille's  poor  Wife 
may  cease  hovering  about  this  Prison. 
Nay,  let  her  kiss  her  poor  children; 
and  prepare  to  enter  it,  and  to  fol- 
low!— 


Danton  carried  a  high  look  in  the  Death- 
cart.  Not  so  Camille;  it  is  but  one  week, 
and  all  is  so  topsyturvied;  angel  Wife  left 
weeping;  love,  riches,  Revolutionary  fame, 
left  all  at  the  Prison-gate;  carnivorous 
Rabble  now  howling  round.  Palpable, 
and  yet  incredible;  like  a  madman's 
dream!  Camille  struggles  and  writhes; 
his  shoulders  shuffle  the  loose  coat  off 
them,  which  hangs  knotted,  the  hands 
tied:  "Calm,  my  friend,"  said  Danton; 
"heed  not  that  vile  canaille  (laissez  la  cette 
vile  canaille)."  At  the  foot  of  the  Scaf- 
fold, Danton  was  heard  to  ejaculate:  "O 
my  Wife,  my  well-beloved,  I  shall  never 
see  thee  more  then!" — but,  interrupting 
himself:  "Danton,  no  weakness!"  He 
said  to  Herault-Sechelles  stepping  forward 
to  embrace  him:  "Our  heads  will  meet 
there"  in  the  Headsman's  sack.  His  last 
words  were  to  Samson  the  Headsman  him- 
self: "Thou  wilt  show  my  head  to  the 
people;  it  is  worth  showing." 

So  passes,  like  a  gigantic  mass,  of  valor, 
ostentation,  fury,  affection  and  wild  revo- 
lutionary force  and  manhood,  this  Dan- 
ton,  to  his  unknown  home.  He  was  of 
Arcis-sur-Aube;  born  of  "good  farmer- 
people"  there.  He  had  many  sins;  but 
one  worst  sin  he  had  not,  that  of  Cant. 
No  hollow  Formalist,  deceptive  and  self- 
deceptive,  ghastly  to  the  natural  sense,  was 
this;  but  a  very  Man:  with  all  his  dross 
he  was  a  Man;  fiery-real,  from  the  great 
fire-bosom  of  Nature  herself.  He  saved 
France  from  Brunswick; he  walked  straight 
his  own  wild  road,  whither  it  led  him. 
He  may  live  for  some  generations  in  the 
memory  of  men. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD  MACAULAY  (1800-1859) 

The  brilliant  style  of  Macaulay  makes  his  historical  works  as  entertaining  as  fiction.  But,  though 
popular  interest  in  history  may  be  less  quickly  aroused  by  more  guarded  and  impartial  writers,  yet  it 
is  well  to  remember  that  Macaulay  is  availing  himself  of  the  privileges  of  a  journalist  or  novelist  in  pre- 
senting vivid  pictures,  boldly  and  highly  colored. 


FREDERICK  THE  GREAT 

THE  TREACHERY  OF  FREDERICK 

EARLY  in  the  year  1740,  Frederick 
William  met  death  with  a  firmness  and 
dignity  worthy  of  a  better  and  wiser  man; 


and  Frederick,  who  had  just  completed 
his  twenty-eighth  year,  became  King  of 
Prussia.  His  character  was  little  under- 
stood. That  he  had  good  abilities,  indeed, 
no  person  who  had  talked  with  him  or 
corresponded  with  him  could  doubt.  But 


HISTORY 


281 


the  easy,  Epicurean  life  which  he  had  led, 
his  love  of  good  cookery  and  good  wine, 
of  music,  of  conversation,  of  light  litera- 
ture, led  many  to  regard  him  as  a  sensual 
and  intellectual  voluptuary.  His  habit  of 
canting  about  moderation,  peace,  liberty, 
and  the  happiness  which  a  good  mind 
derives  from  the  happiness  of  others,  had 
imposed  on  some  who  should  have  known 
better.  Those  who  thought  best  of  him 
expected  a  Telemachus  after  Fenelon's 
pattern.  Others  predicted  the  approach 
of  a  Medicean  age — an  age  propitious  to 
learning  and  art,  and  not  unpropitious 
to  pleasure.  Nobody  had  the  least  sus- 
picion that  a  tyrant  of  extraordinary  mili- 
tary and  political  talents,  of  industry  more 
extraordinary  still,  without  fear,  without 
faith,  and  without  mercy,  had  ascended 
the  throne. 

The  disappointment  of  Falstaff  at  his 
old  boon  companion's  coronation  was  not 
more  bitter  than  that  which  awaited  some 
of  the  inmates  of  Rheinsberg.  They  had 
long  looked  forward  to  the  accession  of 
their  patron,  as  to  the  day  from  which  their 
own  prosperity  and  greatness  was  to  date. 
They  had  at  last  reached  the  promised 
land,  the  land  which  they  had  figured  to 
themselves  as  flowing  with  milk  and  honey, 
and  they  found  it  a  desert.  "No  more  of 
these  fooleries,"  was  the  short,  sharp  ad- 
monition given  by  Frederick  to  one  of 
them.  It  soon  become  plain  that,  in  the 
most  important  points,  the  new  sovereign 
bore  a  strong  family  likeness  to  his  prede- 
cessor. There  was  a  wide  difference  be- 
tween the  father  and  the  son  as  respected 
extent  and  vigor  of  intellect,  speculative 
opinions,  amusements,  studies,  outward 
demeanor.  But  the  groundwork  of  the 
character  was  the  same  in  both.  To  both 
were  common  the  love  of  order,  the  love 
of  business,  the  military  taste,  the  par- 
simony, the  imperious  spirit,  the  temper 
irritable  even  to  ferocity,  the  pleasure  in 
the  pain  and  humiliation  of  others.  But 
these  propensities  had  in  Frederick  William 
partaken  of  the  general  unsoundness  of 
his  mind,  and  wore  a  very  different  aspect 
when  found  in  company  with  the  strong 
and  cultivated  understanding  of  his  suc- 


cessor. Thus,  for  example,  Frederick  was 
as  anxious  as  any  prince  could  be  about  the 
efficacy  of  his  army.  But  this  anxiety 
never  degenerated  into  a  monomania, 
like  that  which  led  his  father  to  pay  fancy 
prices  for  giants.  Frederick  was  as  thrifty 
about  money  as  any  prince  or  any  private 
man  ought  to  be.  But  he  did  not  con- 
ceive, like  his  father,  that  it  was  worth 
while  to  eat  unwholesome  cabbages  for  the 
sake  of  saving  four  or  five  rix  dollars  in  the 
year.  Frederick  was,  we  fear,  as  malevo- 
lent as  his  father;  but  Frederick's  wit 
enabled  him  often  to  show  his  malevolence 
in  ways  more  decent  than  those  to  which 
his  father  resorted,  and  to  inflict  misery 
and  degradation  by  a  taunt  instead  of 
blow.  Frederick  it  is  true  by  no  means 
relinquished  his  hereditary  privilege  of 
kicking  and  cudgelling.  His  practice, 
however,  as  to  that  matter  differed  in 
some  important  respects  from  his  father's. 
To  Frederick  William,  the  mere  circum- 
stance that  any  persons  whatever,  men, 
women,  or  children,  Prussians  or  foreigners, 
were  within  reach  of  his  toes  and  of  his 
cane,  appeared  to  be  a  sufficient  reason 
for  proceeding  to  belabor  them.  Fred- 
erick required  provocation  as  well  as 
vicinity;  nor  was  he  ever  known  to  in- 
flict this  paternal  species  of  correction 
on  any  but  his  born  subjects;  though 
on  one  occasion  M.  Thiebault  had  reason 
during  a  few  seconds  to  anticipate  the 
high  honor  of  being  an  exception  to  this 
general  rule. 

The  character  of  Frederick  was  still 
very  imperfectly  understood  either  by 
his  subjects  or  by  his  neighbors,  when 
events  occurred  which  exhibited  it  in  a 
strong  light.  A  few  months  after  his 
accession  died  Charles  VI.,  Emperor  of 
Germany,  the  last  descendant  hi  the  male 
line  of  the  house  of  Austria. 

Charles  left  no  son,  and  had  long  before 
his  death  relinquished  all  hopes  of  male 
issue.  During  the  latter  part  of  his  life 
his  principal  object  had  been  to  secure  to 
his  descendants  in  the  female  line  the 
many  crowns  of  the  house  of  Hapsburg. 
With  this  view,  he  had  promulgated  a  new 
law  of  succession  widely  celebrated 


282 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


throughout  Europe  under  the  name  of  the 
"Pragmatic  Sanction."  By  virtue  of  this 
decree,  his  daughter,  the  Archduchess 
Maria  Theresa,  wife  of  Francis  of  Lor- 
raine, succeeded  to  the  dominions  of  her 
ancestors. 

No  sovereign  has  ever  taken  possession 
of  a  throne  by  a  clearer  title.  All  the 
politics  of  the  Austrian  cabinet  had  during 
twenty  years  been  directed  to  one  single 
end — the  settlement  of  the  succession. 
From  every  person  whose  rights  could  be 
considered  as  injuriously  affected,  re- 
nunciations in  the  most  solemn  form  had 
been  obtained.  The  new  law  had  been 
ratified  by  the  Estates  of  all  the  kingdoms 
and  principalities  which  made  up  the  great 
Austrian  monarchy.  England,  France, 
Spam,  Russia,  Poland,  Prussia,  Sweden, 
Denmark,  the  Germanic  body,  had  bound 
themselves  by  treaty  to  maintain  the 
"Pragmatic  Sanction."  That  instrument 
was  placed  under  the  protection  of  the 
public  faith  of  the  whole  civilized  world. 

Even  if  no  positive  stipulations  on  this 
subject  had  existed,  the  arrangement  was 
one  which  no  good  man  would  have  been 
willing  to  disturb.  It  was  a  peaceable 
arrangement.  It  was  an  arrangement 
acceptable  to  the  great  population  whose 
happiness  was  chiefly  concerned.  It  was 
an  arrangement  which  made  no  change 
in  the  distribution  of  power  among  the 
states  of  Christendom.  It  was  an  ar- 
rangement which  could  be  set  aside  only 
by  means  of  a  general  war;  and,  if  it  were 
set  aside,  the  effect  would  be  that  the 
equilibrium  of  Europe  would  be  deranged, 
that  the  loyal  and  patriotic  feelings  of 
millions  would  be  cruelly  outraged,  and 
that  great  provinces  which  had  been  united 
for  centuries  would  be  torn  from  each 
other  by  main  force. 

The  sovereigns  of  Europe  were  there- 
fore bound  by  every  obligation  which 
those  who  are  intrusted  with  power  over 
their  fellow-creatures  ought  to  hold  most 
sacred,  to  respect  and  defend  the  right  of 
the  Archduchess.  Her  situation  and  her 
personal  qualities  were  such  as  might  be 
expected  to  move  the  mind  of  any  generous 
man  to  pity,  admiration,  and  chivalrous 


tenderness.  She  was  in  her  twenty-fourth 
year.  Her  form  was  majestic,  her  features 
beautiful,  her  countenance  sweet  and 
animated,  her  voice  musical,  her  deport- 
ment gracious  and  dignified.  In  all  do- 
mestic relations  she  was  without  reproach. 
She  was  married  to  a  husband  whom  she 
loved,  and  was  on  the  point  of  giving 
birth  to  a  child  when  death  deprived  her 
of  her  father.  The  loss  of  a  parent  and 
the  new  cares  of  the  empire  were  too  much 
for  her  in  the  delicate  state  of  her  health. 
Her  spirits  were  depressed  and  her  cheek 
lost  its  bloom. 

Yet  it  seemed  that  she  had  little  cause 
for  anxiety.  It  seemed  that  justice, 
humanity,  and  the  faith  of  treaties  would 
have  their  due  weight,  and  that  the  settle- 
ment so  solemnly  guaranteed  would  be 
quietly  carried  into  effect.  England,  Rus- 
sia, Poland,  and  Holland  declared  in 
form  their  intention  to  adhere  to  their 
engagements.  The  French  ministers  made 
a  verbal  declaration  to  the  same  effect. 
But  from  no  quarter  did  the  young  Queen 
of  Hungary  receive  stronger  assurances 
of  friendship  and  support  than  from  the 
King  of  Prussia. 

Yet  the  King  of  Prussia,  the  "Anti- 
Machiavel,"  had  already  fully  determined 
to  commit  the  great  crime  of  violating 
his  plighted  faith,  of  robbing  the  ally 
whom  he  was  bound  to  defend,  and  of 
plunging  all  Europe  into  a  long,  bloody, 
and  desolating  war,  and  all  this  for  no 
end  whatever  except  that  he  might  extend 
his  dominions  and  see  his  name  in  the 
gazettes.  He  determined  to  assemble  a 
great  army  with  speed  and  secrecy  to 
invade  Silesia  before  Maria  Theresa  should 
be  apprised  of  his  design,  and  to  add  that 
rich  province  to  his  kingdom. 

We  will  not  condescend  to  refute  at 
length  the  pleas  .  .  .  [put  forth  by] 
Doctor  Preuss.  They  amount  to  this — 
that  the  house  of  Brandenburg  had  some 
ancient  pretensions  to  Silesia,  and  had 
in  the  previous  century  been  compelled, 
by  hard  usage  on  the  part  of  the  court  of 
Vienna,  to  waive  those  pretensions.  It  is 
certain  that  whoever  might  originally 
have  been  in  the  right  Prussia,  had  sul> 


HISTORY 


mitted.  Prince  after  prince  of  the  house 
of  Brandenburg  had  acquiesced  in  the 
existing  arrangement.  Nay,  the  court  of 
Berlin  had  recently  been  allied  with  that 
of  Vienna,  and  had  guaranteed  the  integ- 
rity of  the  Austrian  states.  Is  it  not 
perfectly  clear  that  if  antiquated  claims 
are  to  be  set  up  against  recent  treaties 
and  long  possession,  the  world  can  never 
be  at  peace  for  a  day?  The  laws  of  all 
nations  have  wisely  established  a  time  of 
limitation,  after  which  titles,  however 
illegitimate  in  then-  origin,  cannot  be  ques- 
tioned. It  is  felt  by  everybody  that  to 
eject  a  person  from  his  estate  on  the  ground 
of  some  injustice  committed  in  the  time 
of  the  Tudors,  would  produce  all  the  evils 
which  result  from  arbitrary  confiscation, 
and  would  make  all  property  insecure. 
It  concerns  the  commonwealth — so  runs 
the  legal  maxim — that  there  be  an  end  of 
litigation.  And  surely  this  maxim  is  at 
least  equally  applicable  to  the  great 
commonwealth  of  states,  for  in  that  com- 
monwealth litigation  means  the  devasta- 
tion of  provinces,  the  suspension  of  trade 
and  industry,  sieges  like  those  of  Badajoz 
and  St.  Sebastian,  pitched  fields  like  those 
of  Eylau  and  Borodino.  We  hold  that  the 
transfer  of  Norway  from  Denmark  to 
Sweden  was  an  unjustifiable  proceeding; 
but  would  the  King  of  Denmark  be  there- 
fore justified  in  landing  without  any  new 
provocation  in  Norway,  and  commencing 
military  operations  there?  The  King  of 
Holland  thinks,  no  doubt,  that  he  was 
unjustly  deprived  of  the  Belgian  prov- 
inces. Grant  that  it  were  so.  Would 
he,  therefore,  be  justified  in  marching  with 
an  army  on  Brussels?  The  case  against 
Frederick  was  still  stronger,  inasmuch  as 
the  injustice  of  which  he  complained  had 
been  committed  more  than  a  century  be- 
fore. Nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that  he 
owed  the  highest  personal  obligations  to 
vhe  house  of  Austria.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  his  life  had  not  been  preserved  by 
the  intercession  of  the  prince  whose  daugh- 
ter he  was  about  to  plunder. 

To  do  the  king  justice,  he  pretended  to 
no  more  virtue  than  he  had.  In  manifes- 
toes he  might,  for  form's  sake,  insert  some 


idle  stories  about  his  antiquated  claim  on 
Silesia;  but  in  his  conversations  and 
Memoirs  he  took  a  very  different  tone. 
To  quote  his  own  words — "Ambition, 
interest,  the  desire  of  making  people  talk 
about  me,  carried  the  day,  and  I  decided 
for  war." 

Having  resolved  on  his  course,  he  acted 
with  ability  and  vigor.  It  was  impossible 
wholly  to  conceal  his  preparations,  for 
throughout  the  Prussian  territories  regi- 
ments, guns,  and  baggage  were  in  motion. 
The  Austrian  envoy  at  Berlin  apprised 
his  court  of  these  facts,  and  expressed  a 
suspicion  of  Frederick's  designs;  but  the 
ministers  of  Maria  Theresa  refused  to  give 
credit  to  so  black  an  imputation  on  a  young 
prince  who  was  known  chiefly  by  his  high 
professions  of  integrity  and  philanthropy. 
"We  will  not,"  they  wrote,  "we  cannot 
believe  it." 

In  the  mean  time  the  Prussian  forces  had 
been  assembled.  Without  any  declaration 
of  war,  without  any  demand  for  reparation, 
in  the  very  act  of  pouring  forth  compli- 
ments and  assurances  of  good-will,  Fred- 
erick commenced  hostilities.  Many  thou- 
sands of  his  troops  were  actually  in  Silesia 
before  the  Queen  of  Hungary  knew  that 
he  had  set  up  any  claim  to  any  part  of  her 
territories.  At  length  he  sent  her  a  me? 
sage  which  could  be  regarded  only  as  an 
insult.  If  she  would  but  let  him  have 
Silesia,  he  would,  he  said,  stand  by  her 
against  any  power  which  should  try  to 
deprive  her  of  her  other  dominions:  as  if 
he  was  not  already  bound  to  stand  by 
her,  or  as  if  his  new  promise  could  be  of 
more  value  than  the  old  one! 

It  was  the  depth  of  winter.  The  cold 
was  severe,  and  the  roads  deep  in  mire. 
But  the  Prussians  passed  on.  Resistance 
was  impossible.  The  Austrian  army  was 
then  neither  numerous  nor  efficient.  The 
small  portion  of  that  army  which  lay  in 
Silesia  was  unprepared  for  hostilities. 
Glogau  was  blockaded;  Breslau  opened 
its  gates;  Ohlau  was  evacuated.  A  few 
scattered  garrisons  still  held  out;  but  the 
whole  open  country  was  subjugated;  no 
enemy  ventured  to  encounter  the  king  in 
the  field:  and  before  the  end  of  January, 


284 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


1741,  he  returned  to  receive  the  congratu- 
lations of  his  subjects  at  Berlin. 

Had  the  Silesian  question  been  merely 
a  question  between  Frederick  and  Maria 
Theresa,  it  would  be  impossible  to  acquit 
the  Prussian  king  of  gross  perfidy.  But 
when  we  consider  the  effects  which  his 
policy  produced,  and  could  not  fail  to 
produce,  on  the  whole  community  of  civ- 
ilized nations,  we  are  compelled  to  pro- 
nounce a  condemnation  still  more  severe. 
Till  he  began  the  war  it  seemed  possible, 
even  probable,  that  the  peace  of  the  world 
would  be  preserved.  The  plunder  of  the 
great  Austrian  heritage  was  indeed  a  strong 
temptation;  and  in  more  than  one  cabinet 
ambitious  schemes  were  already  medi- 
tated. But  the  treaties  by  which  the 
"Pragmatic  Sanction"  had  been  guaran- 
teed were  express  and  recent.  To  throw 
all  Europe  into  confusion  for  a  purpose 
clearly  unjust  was  no  light  matter.  Eng- 
land was  true  to  her  engagements.  The 
voice  of  Fleury  had  always  been  for  peace. 
He  had  a  conscience.  He  was  now  in 
extreme  old  age,  and  was  unwilling,  after 
a  life  which,  when  his  situation  was  con- 
sidered, must  be  pronounced  singularly 
pure,  to  carry  the  fresh  stain  of  a  great 
crime  before  the  tribunal  of  his  God. 
Even  the  vain  and  unprincipled  Belle- 
Isle,  whose  whole  Me  was  one  wild  day- 
dream of  conquest  and  spoliation,  felt  that 
France,  bound  as  she  was  by  solemn  stipu- 
lations, could  not  without  disgrace  make 
a  direct  attack  on  the  Austrian  dominions. 
Charles,  Elector  of  Bavaria,  pretended 
that  he  had  a  right  to  a  large  part  of  the 
inheritance  which  the  "Pragmatic  Sanc- 
tion" gave  to  the  Queen  of  Hungary, 
but  he  was  not  sufficiently  powerful  to 
move  without  support.  It  might,  there- 
fore, not  unreasonably  be  expected  that 
after  a  short  period  of  restlessness,  all  the 
potentates  of  Christendom  would  ac- 
quiesce in  the  arrangements  made  by  the 
late  emperor.  But  the  selfish  rapacity  of 
the  King  of  Prussia  gave  the  signal  to  his 
neighbors.  His  example  quieted  their 
sense  of  shame.  His  success  led  them 
to  underrate  the  difficulty  of  dismembering 
the  Austrian  monarchy.  The  whole  world 


sprang  to  arms.  On  the  head  of  Frederick! 
is  all  the  blood  which  was  shed  in  a  war( 
which  raged  during  many  years  and  in 
every  quarter  of  the  globe — the  blood  of 
the  column  of  Fontenoy,  the  blood  of  the 
brave  mountaineers  who  were  slaughtered 
at  Culloden.  The  evils  produced  by  this 
wickedness  were  felt  in  lands  where  the 
name  of  Prussia  was  unknown;  and,  in 
order  that  he  might  rob  a  neighbor  whom 
he  had  promised  to  defend,  black  men 
fought  on  the  coast  of  Coromandel,  and 
red  men  scalped  each  other  by  the  great 
lakes  of  North  America. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND 
TORRINGTON  AND  TOURVILLE 
FROM  CHAPTERS  XV  AND  XVI 

SCARCELY  had  William  set  out  from  Lon- 
don when  a  great  French  fleet  commanded 
by  the  Count  of  Tourville  left  the  port 
of  Brest  and  entered  the  British  Channel. 
Tourville  was  the  ablest  maritime  com- 
mander that  his  country  then  possessed. 
He  had  studied  every  part  of  his  profes- 
sion.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  was 
competent  to  fill  any  place  on  shipboard 
from  that  of  carpenter  up  to  that  of  ad- 
miral. It  was  said  of  him,  also,  that  to 
the  dauntless  courage  of  a  seaman  he 
united  the  suavity  and  urbanity  of  an 
accomplished  gentleman.  He  now  stood 
over  to  the  English  shore,  and  approached 
it  so  near  that  his  ships  could  be  plainly 
descried  from  the  ramparts  of  Plymouth. 
From  Plymouth  he  proceeded  slowly  along 
the  coast  of  Devonshire  a*nd  Dorsetshire. 
There  was  great  reason  to  apprehend  that 
his  movements  had  been  concerted  with 
the  English  malcontents. 

The  Queen  and  her  Council  hastened  to 
take  measures  for  the  defence  of  the  coun- 
try against  both  foreign  and  domestic 
enemies.  Torrington  took  the  command 
of  the  English  fleet  which  lay  in  the 
Downs,  and  sailed  to  Saint  Helen's.  He 
was  there  joined  by  a  Dutch  squadron  under 
the  command  of  Evertsen.  It  seemed 
that  the  cliffs  of  the  Isle  of  Wight  would 
witness  one  of  the  greatest  naval  conflicts 


HISTORY 


recorded  in  history.  A  hundred  and  fifty 
ships  of  the  line  could  be  counted  at  once 
from  the  watchtower  of  Saint  Catha- 
rine's. On  the  east  of  the  huge  precipice 
of  Black  Gang  Chine,  and  in  full  view  of 
the  richly  wooded  rocks  of  Saint  Lawr- 
ence and  Ventnor,  were  mustered  the 
maritime  forces  of  England  and  Holland. 
On  the  west,  stretching  to  that  white  cape 
where  the  waves  roar  among  the  Needles, 
lay  the  armament  of  France. 

It  was  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  June,  [1690] 
less  than  a  fortnight  after  William  had 
sailed  for  Ireland,  that  the  hostile  fleets  took 
up  these  positions.  A  few  hours  earlier, 
there  had  been  an  important  and  anxious 
sitting  of  the  Privy  Council  at  Whitehall. 
The  malcontents  who  were  leagued 
with  France  were  alert  and  full  of  hope. 
Mary  had  remarked,  while  taking  her 
airing,  that  Hyde  Park  was  swarming 
with  them.  The  whole  board  was  of 
opinion  that  it  was  necessary  to  arrest 
some  persons  of  whose  guilt  the  govern- 
ment had  proofs.  When  Clarendon  was 
named,  something  was  said  hi  his  behalf 
by  his  friend  and  relation,  Sir  Henry 
Capel.  The  other  councillors  stared,  but 
remained  silent.  It  was  no  pleasant  task 
to  accuse  the  Queen's  kinsman  in  the 
Queen's  presence.  Mary  had  scarcely 
ever  opened  her  lips  at  Council:  but  now, 
being  possessed  of  clear  proofs  of  her  un- 
cle's treason  in  his  own  handwriting,  and 
knowing  that  respect  for  her  prevented 
her  advisers  from  proposing  what  the 
public  safety  required,  she  broke  silence. 
"Sir  Henry,"  she  said,  "I  know,  and 
everybody  here  knows  as  well  as  I,  that 
there  is  too  much  against  my  Lord  Claren- 
don to  leave  him  out."  The  warrant  was 
drawn  up;  and  Capel  signed  it  with  the 
rest.  "I  am  more  sorry  for  Lord  Claren- 
don," Mary  wrote  to  her  husband,  "than, 
may  be,  will  be  believed."  That  evening 
Clarendon  and  several  other  noted  Ja- 
cobites were  lodged  in  the  Tower. 

When  the  Privy  Council  had  risen,  the 
Queen  and  the  interior  Council  of  Nine 
had  to  consider  a  question  of  the  gravest 
importance.  What  orders  were  to  be  sent 
to  Torrington?  The  safety  of  the  State 


might  depend  on  his  judgment  and  pres- 
ence of  mind;  and  some  of  Mary's  advisers 
apprehended  that  he  would  not  be  found 
equal  to  the  occasion.  Their  anxiety  in- 
creased when  news  came  that  he  had  aban- 
doned the  coast  of  the  Isle  of  Wight  to  the 
French,  and  was  retreating  before  them 
towards  the  Straits  of  Dover.  The  sa- 
gacious Caermarthen  and  the  enterprising 
Monmouth  agreed  in  blaming  these  cau» 
tious  tactics.  It  was  true  that  Torring* 
ton  had  not  so  many  vessels  as  Tourville: 
but  Caermarthen  thought  that,  at  such 
a  time,  it  was  advisable  to  fight,  although 
against  odds;  and  Monmouth  was, 
through  life,  for  fighting  at  all  times  and 
against  all  odds.  Russell,  who  was  indis- 
putably one  of  the  best  seamen  of  the  age, 
held  that  the  disparity  of  numbers  was 
not  such  as  ought  to  cause  any  uneasiness 
to  an  officer  who  commanded  English  and 
Dutch  sailors.  He  therefore  proposed  to 
send  to  the  Admiral  a  reprimand  couched 
in  terms  so  severe  that  the  Queen  did  not 
like  to  sign  it.  The  language  was  much 
softened;  but,  in  the  main,  Russell's 
advice  was  followed.  Torrington  was 
positively  ordered  to  retreat  no  further, 
and  to  give  battle  immediately.  Devon- 
shire, however,  was  still  unsatisfied.  "It 
is  my  duty,  Madam,"  he  said,  "to  tell 
Your  Majesty  exactly  what  I  think  on  a 
matter  of  this  importance;  and  I  think 
that  my  Lord  Torrington  is  not  a  man  to 
be  trusted  with  the  fate  of  three  king- 
doms." Devonshire  was  right:  but  his 
colleagues  were  unanimously  of  opinion 
that  to  supersede  a  commander  in  sight 
of  the  enemy,  and  on  the  eve  of  a  general 
action,  would  be  a  course  full  of  danger; 
and  it  is  difficult  to  say  that  they  were 
wrong.  "You  must  either,"  said  Russell, 
"leave  him  where  he  is,  or  send  for  him 
as  a  prisoner."  Several  expedients  were 
suggested.  Caermarthen  proposed  that 
Russell  should  be  sent  to  assist  Torring- 
ton. Monmouth  passionately  implored 
permission  to  join  the  fleet  in  any  capacity, 
as  a  captain,  or  as  a  volunteer.  "Only 
let  me  be  once  on  board;  and  I  pledge  my 
life  that  there  shall  be  a  battle."  After 
much  discussion  and  hesitation,  it  was 


286 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


resolved  that  both  Russell  and  Mon- 
mouth  should  go  down  to  the  coast.  They 
set  out,  but  too  late.  The  despatch  which 
ordered  Torrington  to  fight  had  preceded 
them.  It  reached  him  when  he  was  off 
Beachy  Head.  He  read  it,  and  was  in  a 
great  strait.  Not  to  give  battle  was  to 
be  guilty  of  direct  disobedience.  To 
give  battle  was,  in  his  judgment,  to  incur 
serious  risk  of  defeat.  He  probably  sus- 
pected— for  he  was  of  a  captious  and  jeal- 
ous temper — that  the  instructions  which 
placed  him  in  so  painful  a  dilemma  had 
been  framed  by  enemies  and  rivals  with 
a  design  unfriendly  to  his  fortune  and  his 
fame.  He  was  exasperated  by  the  thought 
that  he  was  ordered  about  and  overruled 
by  Russell,  who,  though  his  inferior  hi 
professional  rank,  exercised,  as  one  of  the 
Council  of  Nine,  a  supreme  control  over 
all  the  departments  of  the  public  service. 
There  seems  to  be  no  ground  for  charging 
Torrington  with  disaffection.  Still  less 
can  it  be  suspected  that  an  officer,  whose 
whole  life  had  been  passed  in  confront- 
ing danger,  and  who  had  always  borne 
himself  bravely,  wanted  the  personal 
courage  which  hundreds  of  sailors  on 
board  of  every  ship  under  his  command 
possessed.  But  there  is  a  higher  courage 
of  which  Torrington  was  wholly  destitute. 
He  shrank  from  all  responsibility,  from 
the  responsibility  of  fighting,  and  from  the 
responsibility  of  not  fighting;  and  he  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  out  a  middle  way  which 
united  all  the  inconveniences  which  he 
wished  to  avoid.  He  would  conform  to 
the  letter  of  his  instructions:  yet  he  would 
not  put  every  thing  to  hazard.  Some  of 
his  ships  should  skirmish  with  the  enemy: 
but  the  great  body  of  his  fleet  should  not 
be  risked.  It  was  evident  that  the  vessels 
which  engaged  the  French  would  be  placed 
in  a  most  dangerous  situation,  and  would 
suffer  much  loss;  and  there  is  but  too  good 
reason  to  believe  that  Torrington  was  base 
enough  to  lay  his  plans  in  such  a  manner 
that  the  danger  and  loss  might  fall  al- 
most exclusively  to  the  share  of  the  Dutch. 
He  bore  them  no  love;  and  in  England 
they  were  so  unpopular  that  the  destruc- 
tion of  their  whole  squadron  was  likely  to 


cause  fewer  murmurs  than  the  capture  of 
one  of  our  own  frigates. 

It  was  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  June 
that  the  Admiral  received  the  order  to 
fight.  The  next  day,  at  four  in  the  morning, 
he  bore  down  on  the  French  fleet,  and 
formed  his  vessels  in  order  of  battle.  He 
had  not  sixty  sail  of  the  line,  and  the 
French  had  at  least  eighty;  but  his  ships 
were  more  strongly  manned  than  those  of 
the  enemy.  He  placed  the  Dutch  in  the 
van  and  gave  them  the  signal  to  engage. 
This  signal  was  promptly  obeyed.  Evert- 
sen  and  his  countrymen  fought  with  a 
courage  to  which  both  their  English  allies 
and  then*  French  enemies,  in  spite  of 
national  prejudices,  did  full  justice.  In 
none  of  Van  Tromp's  or  De  Ruyter's 
battles  had  the  honor  of  the  Batavian 
flag  been  more  gallantly  upheld.  During 
many  hours  the  van  maintained  the  un- 
equal contest  with  /ery  little  assistance 
from  any  other  part  of  the  fleet.  At 
length  the  Dutch  Admiral  drew  off,  leav- 
ing one  shattered  and  dismasted  hull  to 
the  enemy.  His  second  hi  command  and 
several  officers  of  high  rank  had  fallen. 
To  keep  the  sea  against  the  French  after 
this  disastrous  and  ignominious  action 
was  impossible.  The  Dutch  ships  which 
had  come  out  of  the  fight  were  in  lament- 
able condition.  Torrington  ordered  some 
of  them  to  be  destroyed:  the  rest  he  took 
in  tow:  he  then  fled  along  the  coast  of 
Kent,  and  sought  a  refuge  in  the  Thames. 
As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  river,  he  ordered 
all  the  buoys  to  be  pulled  up,  and  thus 
made  the  navigation  so  dangerous,  that 
the  pursuers  could  not  venture  to  follow 
him. 

It  was,  however,  thought  by  many, 
and  especially  by  the  French  ministers, 
that,  if  Tourville  had  been  more  enterpris- 
ing, the  allied  fleet  might  have  been  de- 
stroyed. He  seems  to  have  borne,  in  one 
respect,  too  much  resemblance  to  his  van- 
quished opponent.  Though  a  brave  man, 
he  was  a  timid  commander.  His  life  he 
exposed  with  careless  gaiety;  but  it  was 
said  that  he  was  nervously  anxious  and 
pusillanimously  cautious  when  his  pro- 
fessional reputation  wa<;  in  danger.  He 


HISTORY 


287 


was  so  much  annoyed  by  these  censures 
that  he  soon  became,  unfortunately  for 
his  country,  bold  even  to  temerity. 

There  has  scarcely  ever  been  so  sad  a 
day  in  London  as  that  on  which  the  news 
of  the  Battle  of  Beachy  Head  arrived. 
The  shame  was  insupportable:  the  peril 
was  imminent.  What  if  the  victorious 
enemy  should  do  what  De  Ruyter  had 
done?  What  if  the  dockyards  of  Chat- 
ham should  again  be  destroyed?  What 
if  the  Tower  itself  should  be  bombarded? 
What  if  the  vast  wood  of  masts  and  yard- 
arms  below  London  Bridge  should  be  in  a 
blaze? 


Tourville  had,  since  the  battle  of  Beachy 
Head,  ranged  the  Channel  unopposed. 
On  the  twenty-first  of  July  [1690]  his  masts 
were  seen  from  the  rocks  of  Portland.  On 
the  twenty-second  he  anchored  in  the  har- 
bor of  Torbay,  under  the  same  heights 
which  had,  not  many  months  before, 
sheltered  the  armament  of  William.  The 
French  fleet,  which  now  had  a  consider- 
able number  of  troops  on  board,  consisted 
of  a  hundred  and  eleven  sail.  The  gal- 
leys, which  formed  a  large  part  of  this 
force,  resembled  rather  those  ships  with 
which  Alcibiades  and  Lysander  disputed 
the  sovereignty  of  the  ^Egean  than  those 
which  contended  at  the  Nile  and  at  Tra- 
falgar. The  galley  was  very  long  and 
very  narrow,  the  deck  not  more  than 
two  feet  from  the  water  edge.  Each 
galley  was  propelled  by  fifty  or  sixty 
huge  oars,  and  each  oar  was  tugged  by 
five  or  six  slaves.  The  full  complement  of 
slaves  to  a  vessel  was  three  hundred  and 
thirty-six;  the  full  complement  of  officers 
and  soldiers  a  hundred  and  fifty.  Of  the 
unhappy  rowers  some  were  criminals  who 
had  been  justly  condemned  to  a  life  of 
hardship  and  danger:  a  few  had  been 
guilty  only  of  adhering  obstinately  to  the 
Huguenot  worship:  the  great  majority 
were  purchased  bondsmen,  generally 
Turks  and  Moors.  They  were  of  course 
always  forming  plans  for  massacring  their 
tyrants  and  escaping  from  servitude,  and 
could  be  kept  in  order  only  by  constant 


stripes  and  by  the  frequent  infliction  of 
death  in  horrible  forms.  An  English- 
man, who  happened  to  fall  hi  with  about 
twelve  hundred  of  these  most  miserable 
and  most  desperate  of  human  beings  on 
their  road  from  Marseilles  to  join  Tour- 
ville's  squadron,  heard  them  vowing 
that,  if  they  came  near  a  man  of  war 
bearing  the  cross  of  Saint  George,  they 
would  never  again  see  a  French  dockyard. 

In  the  Mediterranean  galleys  were  in 
ordinary  use:  but  none  had  ever  before 
been  seen  on  the  stormy  ocean  which 
roars  round  our  island.  The  flatterers 
of  Lewis  said  that  the  appearance  of  such 
a  squadron  on  the  Atlantic  was  one  of 
those  wonders  which  were  reserved  for  his 
reign;  and  a  medal  was  struck  at  Paris  to 
commemorate  this  bold  experiment  in 
maritime  war.  English  sailors,  with  more 
reason,  predicted  that  the  first  gale  would 
send  the  whole  of  this  fairweather  arma- 
ment to  the  bottom  of  the  Channel.  In- 
deed the  galley,  like  the  ancient  trireme, 
generally  kept  close  to  the  shore,  and  ven- 
tured out  of  sight  of  land  only  when  the 
water  was  unruffled  and  the  sky  serene. 
But  the  qualities  which  made  this  sort  of 
ship  unfit  to  brave  tempests  arid  billows 
made  it  peculiarly  fit  for  the  purpose  of 
landing  soldiers.  Tourville  determined 
to  try  what  effect  would  be  produced  by  a 
disembarkation.  The  English  Jacobites 
who  had  taken  refuge  in  France  were  all 
confident  that  the  whole  population  of  the 
island  was  ready  to  rally  round  an  invad- 
ing army:  and  he  probably  gave  them 
credit  for  understanding  the  temper  of  their 
countrymen. 

Never  was  there  a  greater  error.  In- 
deed the  French  admiral  is  said  by  tradi- 
tion to  have  received,  while  he  was  still 
out  at  sea,  a  lesson  which  might  have 
taught  him  not  to  rely  on  the  assurances  of 
exiles.  He  picked  up  a  fishing  boat,  and 
interrogated  the  owner,  a  plain  Sussex 
man,  about  the  sentiments  of  the  nation. 
"Are  you,"  he  said,  "for  King  James?" 
"I  do  not  know  much  about  such  mat- 
ters," answered  the  fisherman.  "I  have 
nothing  to  say  against  King  James. 
He  is  a  very  worthy  gentleman,  I  befieve. 


*88 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


God  bless  him!"  "A  good  fellow!" 
said  Tourville:  "then  I  am  sure  you  will 
have  no  objection  to  take  service  with  us." 
"What!"  cried  the  prisoner;  "go  with  the 
French  to  fight  against  the  English! 
Your  honor  must  excuse  me:  I  could  not 
do  it  to  save  my  life."  This  poor  fisher- 
man, whether  he  was  a  real  or  an  imagi- 
nary person,  spoke  the  sense  of  the  nation. 
The  beacon  on  the  ridge  overlooking 
Teignmouth  was  kindled:  the  High  Tor 
and  Causland  made  answer;  and  soon  all 
the  bill  tops  of  the  West  were  on  fire. 
Messengers  were  riding  hard  all  night  from 
Deputy  Lieutenant  to  Deputy  Lieuten- 
ant. Early  the  next  morning,  without 
chief,  without  summons,  five  hundred 
gentlemen  and  yeomen,  armed  and 
mounted,  had  assembled  on  the  summit 
of  Haldon  Hill.  In  twenty-four  hours  all 
Devonshire  was  up.  Every  road  in  the 
county  from  sea  to  sea  was  covered  by 
multitudes  of  fighting  men,  all  with  their 
faces  set  towards  Torbay.  The  lords  of  a 
hundred  manors,  proud  of  their  long  pedi- 
grees and  old  coats  of  arms,  took  the  field 
at  the  head  of  their  tenantry,  Drakes, 
Prideauxes  and  Rolles,  Fowell  of  Fowels- 
combe  andFulfordof  Fulford,  Sir  Bourchier 
Wray  of  Tawstock  Park  and  Sir  William 
Courtenay  of  Powderham  Castle.  Letters 
written  by  several  of  the  Deputy  Lieu- 
tenants who  were  most  active  during  this 
anxious  week  are  still  preserved.  All  these 
letters  agree  in  extolling  the  courage  and 
enthusiasm  of  the  people.  But  all  agree 
also  in  expressing  the  most  painful  so- 
licitude as  to  the  result  of  an  encounter 
between  a  raw  militia  and  veterans  who 
had  served  under  Turenne  and  Luxem- 
burg; and  all  call  for  the  help  of  regular 
troops,  in  'iinguage  very  unlike  that  which, 
when  the  pressure  of  danger  was  not  felt, 
country  gentlemen  were  then  in  the  habit 
of  using  about  standing  armies. 

Tourville,  finding  that  the  whole  pop- 
ulation was  united  as  one  man  against 
him,  contented  himself  with  sending  his 
galleys  to  ravage  Teignmouth,  now  a  gay 
watering  place  consisting  of  twelve  hun- 
dred houses,  then  an  obscure  village  of 
about  forty  cottages.  The  inhabitants 


had  fled.  Their  dwellings  were  burned: 
the  venerable  parish  church  was  sacked, 
the  pulpit  and  the  communion  table  de- 
molished, the  Bibles  and  Prayer  Books 
torn  and  scattered  about  the  roads:  the 
cattle  and  pigs  were  slaughtered;  and  a 
few  small  vessels  which  were  employed  in 
fishing  or  in  the  coasting  trade,  were  de- 
stroyed. By  this  time  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen thousand  Devonshire  men  had  en- 
camped close  to  the  shore;  and  all  the 
neighboring  counties  had  risen.  The 
tin  mines  of  Cornwall  had  sent  forth  a 
great  multitude  of  rude  and  hardy  men  mor- 
tally hostile  to  Popery.  Ten  thousand  of 
them  had  just  signed  an  address  to  the 
Queen,  in  which  they  had  promised  to 
stand  by  her  against  every  enemy;  and 
they  now  kept  their  word.  In  truth,  the 
whole  nation  was  stirred.  Two  and 
twenty  troops  of  cavalry,  furnished  by 
Suffolk,  Essex,  Hertfordshire  and  Buck- 
inghamshire, were  reviewed  by  Mary 
at  Hounslow,  and  were  complimented  by 
Marlborough  on  their  martial  appearance. 
The  militia  of  Kent  and  Surrey  encamped 
on  Blackheath.  Van  Citters  informed  the 
States  General  that  all  England  was  up  in 
arms,  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  that  the 
disastrous  event  of  the  battle  of  Beachy 
Head  had  not  cowed,  but  exasperated  the 
people,  and  that  every  company  of  soldiers 
which  he  passed  on  the  road  was  shouting 
with  one  voice,  "  God  bless  King  William 
and  Queen  Mary." 

Charles  Granville,  Lord  Lansdowne, 
eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of  Bath,  came  with 
some  troops  from  the  garrison  of  Plymouth 
to  take  the  command  of  the  tumultuary 
army  which  had  assembled  round  the 
basin  of  Torbay.  Lansdowne  was  no 
novice.  He  had  served  several  hard 
campaigns  against  the  common  enemy 
of  Christendom,  and  had  been  created  a 
Count  of  the  Roman  Empire  in  reward 
of  the  valor  which  he  had  displayed  on 
that  memorable  day,  sung  by  Filicaja  and 
by  Waller,  when  the  infidels  retired  from 
the  walls  of  Vienna.  He  made  prepara- 
tions for  action;  but  the  French  did  not 
choose  to  attack  him,  and  were  indeed 
impatient  to  depart.  They  found  some 


HISTORY 


289 


difficulty  in  getting  away.  One  day  the 
wind  was  adverse  to  the  sailing  vessels. 
Another  day  the  water  was  too  rough  for 
the  galleys.  At  length  the  fleet  stood 
out  to  sea.  As  the  line  of  ships  turned 
the  lofty  cape  which  overlooks  Torquay, 
an  incident  happened  which,  though  slight 
in  itself,  greatly  interested  the  thousands 
who  lined  the  coast.  Two  wretched  slaves 
disengaged  themselves  from  an  oar,  and 
sprang  overboard.  One  of  them  perished. 
The  other,  after  struggling  more  than  an 
hour  in  the  water,  came  safe  to  English 
ground,  and  was  cordially  welcomed  by  a 
population  to  which  the  discipline  of  the 
galleys  was  a  thing  strange  and  shocking. 
He  proved  to  be  a  Turk,  and  was  humanely 
sent  back  to  his  own  country. 

A  pompous  description  of  the  expedi- 
tion appeared  in  the  Paris  Gazette.  But 
in  truth  Tourville's  exploits  had  been 
inglorious,  and  yet  less  inglorious  than 
impolitic.  The  injury  which  he  had  done 
bore  no  proportion  to  the  resentment 
which  he  had  roused.  Hitherto  the 
Jacobites  had  tried  to  persuade  the  nation 
that  the  French  would  come  as  friends  and 
deliverers,  would  observe  strict  disci- 


pline, would  respect  the  temples  and  the 
ceremonies  of  the  established  religion,  and 
would  depart  as  soon  as  the  Dutch  oppres- 
sors had  been  expelled  and  the  ancient 
constitution  of  the  realm  restored.  The 
short  visit  of  Tourville  to  our  coast  had 
shown  how  little  reason  there  was  to  expect 
such  moderation  from  the  soldiers  of 
Lewis.  They  had  been  in  our  island  only 
a  few  hours,  and  had  occupied  only  a  few 
acres.  But  within  a  few  hours  and  a  few 
acres  had  been  exhibited  in  miniature  the 
devastation  of  the  Palatinate.  What  had 
happened  was  communicated  to  the  whole 
kingdom  far  more  rapidly  than  by  gazettes 
or  news  letters.  A  brief  for  the  relief  of 
the  people  of  Teignmouth  was  read  in 
all  the  ten  thousand  parish  churches  of  the 
land.  No  congregation  could  hear  with- 
out emotion  that  the  Popish  marauders 
had  made  desolate  the  habitations  of  quiet 
and  humble  peasants,  had  outraged  the 
altars  of  God,  had  torn  to  pieces  the  Gos- 
pels and  the  Communion  service.  A 
street,  built  out  of  the  contributions  of  the 
charitable,  on  the  site  of  the  dwellings 
which  the  invaders  had  destroyed,  stiU 
retains  the  name  of  French  Street. 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN  (1823-1893) 

Francis  Parkman  is  the  eloquent  historian  of  the  epic  struggle  between  France  and  England  for  a 
continent.  This  long  contest  was  a  duel  between  the  two  most  powerful  nations  in  the  world,  the  out- 
come of  which  was  to  determine  which  civilization  was  to  become  the  dominant  colonizing  force  in  the 
world.  The  following  pages,  chosen  from  the  "Conspiracy  of  Pontiac,"  describe  the  character  and  mode 
of  warfare  of  the  Indian  allies  of  the  French. 


THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  PONTIAC 

CHAPTER  VII 
ANGER  OF  THE  INDIANS — THE  CONSPIRACY 

THE  country  was  scarcely  transferred 
to  the  English  when  smothered  murmurs  of 
discontent  began  to  be  audible  among  the 
Indian  tribes.  From  the  head  of  the 
Potomac  to  Lake  Superior,  and  from  the 
Alleghanies  to  the  Mississippi,  in  every 
wigwam  and  hamlet  of  the  forest,  a  deep- 
rooted  hatred  of  the  English  increased 
with  rapid  growth.  Nor  is  this  to  be 
wondered  at.  We  have  seen  with  what 
sagacious  policy  the  French  had  labored 


to  ingratiate  themselves  with  the  In- 
dians; and  the  slaughter  of  the  Monon- 
gahela,  with  the  horrible  devastation  of 
the  western  frontier,  the  outrages  per- 
petrated at  Oswego,  and  the  massacre 
at  Fort  William  Henry,  bore  witness  to 
the  success  of  their  efforts.  Even  the 
Dela wares  and  Shawanoes,  the  faithful 
allies  of  William  Penn,  had  at  length 
been  seduced  by  their  blandishments; 
and  the  Iroquois,  the  ancient  enemies  of 
Canada,  had  half  forgotten  their  former 
hostility,  and  well-nigh  taken  part  against 
the  British  colonists.  The  remote  na- 
tions of  the  west  had  also  joined  in  the 
war,  descending  in  their  canoes  for  hun- 


290 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


dreds  of  miles,  to  fight  against  the  enemies 
of  France.  All  these  tribes  entertained 
towards  the  English  that  rancorous  en- 
mity which  an  Indian  always  feels  against 
those  to  whom  he  has  been  opposed  in 
war. 

Under  these  circumstances,  it  behooved 
the  English  to  use  the  utmost  care  in  their 
conduct  towards  the  tribes.  But  even 
when  the  conflict  with  France  was  im- 
pending, and  the  alliance  with  the  In- 
dians of  the  last  importance,  they  had 
treated  them  with  indifference  and  neglect. 
They  were  not  likely  to  adopt  a  different 
course  now  that  their  friendship  seemed  a 
matter  of  no  consequence.  In  truth,  the  in- 
tentions of  the  English  were  soon  apparent. 
In  the  zeal  for  retrenchment,  which  pre- 
vailed after  the  close  of  hostilites,  the  pres- 
ents which  it  had  always  been  customary  to 
give  the  Indians,  at  stated  intervals,  were 
either  withheld  altogether,  or  doled  out  with 
a  niggardly  and  reluctant  hand;  while,  to 
make  the  matter  worse,  the  agents  and 
officers  of  government  often  appropriated 
the  presents  to  themselves,  and  afterwards 
sold  them  at  an  exorbitant  price  to  the 
Indians.  When  the  French  had  posses- 
sion of  the  remote  forts,  they  were  ac- 
customed, with  a  wise  liberality,  to  supply 
the  surrounding  Indians  with  guns,  am- 
munition, and  clothing,  until  the  latter 
had  forgotten  the  weapons  and  garments 
of  their  forefathers,  and  depended  on  the 
white  men  for  support.  The  sudden 
withholding  of  these  supplies  was,  there- 
fore, a  grievous  calamity.  Want,  suffer- 
ing, and  death  were  the  consequences, 
and  this  cause  alone  would  have  been 
enough  to  produce  general  discontent. 
But,  unhappily,  other  grievances  were 
superadded. 

The  English  fur-trade  had  never  been 
well  regulated,  and  it  was  now  in  a  worse 
condition  than  ever.  Many  of  the  traders, 
and  those  in  their  employ,  were  ruffians 
of  the  coarsest  stamp,  who  vied  with  each 
other  in  rapacity,  violence,  and  profligacy. 
They  cheated,  cursed,  and  plundered  the 
Indians,  and  outraged  their  families; 
offering,  when  compared  with  the  French 
traders,  who  were  under  better  regulation, 


a  most  unfavorable  example  of  the  char- 
acter of  their  nation. 

The  officers  and  soldiers  of  the  garrisons 
did  their  full  part  in  exciting  the  general 
resentment.  Formerly,  when  the  war- 
riors came  to  the  forts,  they  had  been  wel- 
comed by  the  French  with  attention  and 
respect.  The  inconvenience  which  their 
presence  occasioned  had  been  disregarded, 
and  their  peculiarities  overlooked.  But 
now  they  were  received  with  cold  looks  and 
harsh  words  from  the  officers,  and  with 
oaths,  menaces,  and  sometimes  blows, 
from  the  reckless  and  brutal  soldiers. 
When,  after  their  troublesome  and  in- 
trusive fashion,  they  were  lounging  every- 
where about  the  fort,  or  lazily  reclining 
hi  the  shadow  of  the  walls,  they  were  met 
with  muttered  ejaculations  of  impatience 
or  abrupt  orders  to  depart,  enforced, 
perhaps,  by  a  touch  from  the  butt  of  a 
sentinel's  musket.  These  marks  of  con- 
tempt were  unspeakably  galh'ng  to  their 
haughty  spirit. 

But  what  most  contributed  to  the  grow- 
ing discontent  of  the  tribes  was  the  in- 
trusion of  settlers  upon  their  lands,  at 
all  tunes  a  fruitful  source  of  Indian  hos- 
tility. Its  effects,  it  is  true,  could  only 
be  felt  by  those  whose  country  bordered 
upon  the  English  settlements;  but  among 
these  were  the  most  powerful  and  influen- 
tial of  the  tribes.  The  Delawares  and 
Shawanoes,  in  particular,  had  by  this 
time  been  roused  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
exasperation.  Their  best  lands  had  been 
invaded,  and  all  remonstrance  had  been 
fruitless.  They  viewed  with  wrath  and 
fear  the  steady  progress  of  the  white  man, 
whose  settlements  had  passed  the  Sus- 
quehanna,  and  were  fast  extending  to  the 
Alleghanies,  eating  away  the  forest  like 
a  spreading  canker.  The  anger  of  the 
Delawares  was  abundantly  shared  by  their 
ancient  conquerors,  the  Six  Nations. 
The  threatened  occupation  of  Wyoming 
by  settlers  from  Connecticut  gave  great 
umbrage  to  the  confederacy.  The  Sene- 
cas  were  more  especially  incensed  at  Eng- 
lish intrusion,  since,  from  their  position, 
they  were  farthest  removed  from  the  sooth- 
ing influence  of  Sir  William  Johnson, 


and  most  exposed  to  the  seductions  of  the 
French,  while  the  Mohawks,  another 
member  of  the  confederacy,  were  justly 
alarmed  at  seeing  the  better  part  of  their 
lands  patented  out  without  their  consent. 
Some  Christian  Indians  of  the  Oneida 
tribe,  hi  the  simplicity  of  their  hearts,  sent 
an  earnest  petition  to  Sir  William  John- 
son, that  the  English  forts  within  the 
limits  of  the  Six  Nations  might  be  re- 
moved, or,  as  the  petition  expresses  it, 
kicked  out  of  the  way. 

The  discontent  of  the  Indians  gave 
great  satisfaction  to  the  French,  who  saw 
in  it  an  assurance  of  safe  and  bloody  ven- 
geance on  theu:  conquerors.  Canada,  it  is 
true,  was  gone  beyond  hope  of  recovery; 
but  they  still  might  hope  to  revenge  its  loss. 
Interest,  moreover,  as  well  as  passion, 
prompted  them  to  inflame  the  resentment 
of  the  Indians ;  for  most  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  French  settlements  upon  the  lakes 
and  the  Mississippi  were  engaged  in  the 
fur-trade,  and,  fearing  the  English  as 
formidable  rivals,  they  would  gladly  have 
seen  them  driven  out  of  the  country. 
Traders,  habitans,  coureurs  des  bois,  and  all 
other  classes  of  this  singular  population, 
accordingly  dispersed  themselves  among 
the  villages  of  the  Indians,  or  held  councils 
with  them  in  the  secret  places  of  the 
woods,  urging  them  to  take  up  arms 
against  the  English.  They  exhibited  the 
conduct  of  the  latter  in  its  worst  light,  and 
spared  neither  misrepresentation  nor  false- 
hood. They  told  their  excited  hearers 
that  the  English  had  formed  a  deliberate 
scheme  to  root  out  the  whole  Indian  race, 
and,  with  that  design,  had  already  begun 
to  hem  them  in  with  settlements  on  the 
one  hand,  and  a  chain  of  forts  on  the  other. 
Among  other  atrocious  plans  for  then- 
destruction,  they  had  instigated  the  Chero- 
kees  to  attack  and  destroy  the  tribes  of  the 
Ohio  valley.  These  groundless  calum- 
nies found  ready  belief.  The  French 
declared,  in  addition,  that  the  King  of 
France  had  of  late  years  fallen  asleep; 
that,  during  his  slumbers,  the  English 
had  seized  upon  Canada;  but  that  he  was 
now  awake  again,  and  that  his  armies  were 
advancing  up  the  St.  Lawrence  and  the 


29* 

Mississippi,  to  drive  out  the  intruders 
from  the  country  of  their  red  children. 
To  these  fabrications  was  added  the  more 
substantial  encouragement  of  arms,  am- 
munition, clothing,  and  provisions,  which 
the  French  trading  companies,  if  not  the 
officers  of  the  crown,  distributed  with  a 
liberal  hand. 

The  fierce  passions  of  the  Indians,  ex> 
cited  by  their  wrongs,  real  or  imagined, 
and  exasperated  by  the  representations 
of  the  French,  were  yet  farther  wrought 
upon  by  influences  of  another  kind.  A 
prophet  rose  among  the  Delawares.  This 
man  may  serve  as  a  counterpart  to  the 
famous  Shawanoe  prophet,  who  figured 
so  conspicuously  in  the  Indian  outbreak 
under  Tecumseh,  immediately  before  the 
war  with  England  in  1812.  Many  other 
parallel  instances  might  be  shown,  as  the 
great  susceptibility  of  the  Indians  to 
religious  and  superstitious  impressions  ren- 
ders the  advent  of  a  prophet  among  them 
no  very  rare  occurrence.  In  the  present 
instance,  the  inspired  Delaware  seems  to 
have  been  rather  an  enthusiast  than  an 
impostor;  or  perhaps  he  combined  both 
characters.  The  objects  of  his  mission 
were  not  wholly  political.  By  means  of 
certain  external  observances,  most  of  them 
sufficiently  frivolous  and  absurd,  his  dis- 
ciples were  to  strengthen  and  purify  their 
natures,  and  make  themselves  acceptable 
to  the  Great  Spirit,  whose  messenger  he 
proclaimed  himself  to  be.  He  also  en- 
joined them  to  lay  aside  the  weapons  and 
clothing  which  they  received  from  the 
white  men,  and  return  to  the  primitive 
life  of  theu:  ancestors.  By  so  doing,  and 
by  strictly  observing  his  other  precepts, 
the  tribes  would  soon  be  restored  to  their 
ancient  greatness  and  power,  and  be  en- 
abled to  drive  out  the  white  men  who  in- 
fested their  territory.  The  prophet  had 
many  followers.  Indians  came  from  far 
and  near,  and  gathered  together  in  large 
encampments  to  listen  to  his  exhortations. 
His  fame  spread  even  to  the  nations  of  the 
northern  lakes;  but  though  his  disciples 
followed  most  of  his  injunctions,  flinging 
away  flint  and  steel,  and  making  copious 
use  of  emetics,  with  other  observances 


2Q2 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


equally  troublesome,  yet  the  requisition 
to  abandon  the  use  of  firearms  was  too 
inconvenient  to  be  complied  with. 

With  so  many  causes  to  irritate  their 
restless  and  warlike  spirit,  it  could  not  be 
supposed  that  the  Indians  would  long 
remain  quiet.  Accordingly,  in  the  summer 
of  the  year  1761,  Captain  Campbell,  then 
commanding  at  Detroit,  received  infor- 
mation that  a  deputation  of  Senecas  had 
come  to  the  neighboring  village  of  the 
Wyandots  for  the  purpose  of  instigating 
the  latter  to  destroy  him  and  his  garrison. 
On  further  inquiry,  the  plot  proved  to  be 
general,  and  Niagara,  Fort  Pitt,  and 
other  posts,  were  to  share  the  fate  of 
Detroit.  Campbell  instantly  despatched 
messengers  to  Sir  Jeffery  Amherst,  and  the 
commanding  officers  of  the  different  forts; 
and,  by  this  timely  discovery,  the  con- 
spiracy was  nipped  in  the  bud.  During 
the  following  summer,  1762,  another  simi- 
lar design  was  detected  and  suppressed. 
They  proved  but  the  precursors  of  a  temp- 
est. Within  two  years  after  the  discovery 
of  the  first  plot,,  a  scheme  was  matured 
greater  in  extent,  deeper  and  more  com- 
prehensive in  design — such  a  one  as  was 
never,  before  or  since,  conceived  or  exe- 
cuted by  a  North  American  Indian.  It 
was  determined  to  attack  all  the  English 
forts  upon  the  same  day;  then,  having 
destroyed  their  garrisons,  to  turn  upon 
the  defenceless  frontier,  and  ravage  and 
lay  waste  the  settlements,  until,  as  many 
of  the  Indians  fondly  believed,  the  English 
should  all  be  driven  into  the  sea,  and  the 
country  restored  to  its  primitive  owners. 

It  is  difficult  to  determine  which  tribe 
was  first  to  raise  the  cry  of  war.  There 
were  many  who  might  have  done  so,  for 
all  the  savages  hi  the  backwoods  were  ripe 
for  an  outbreak,  and  the  movement  seemed 
almost  simultaneous.  The  Delawares  and 
Senecas  were  the  most  incensed,  and 
Kiashuta,  chief  of  the  latter,  was  perhaps 
foremost  to  apply  the  torch;  but,  if  this 
were  the  case,  he  touched  fire  to  materials 
already  on  the  point  of  igniting.  It  be- 
longed to  a  greater  chief  than  he  to  give 
method  and  order  to  what  would  else  have 
been  a  wild  burst  of  fury,  and  to  convert 


desultory  attacks  into  a  formidable  and 
protracted  war.  But  for  Pontiac,  the 
whole  might  have  ended  in  a  few  trouble- 
some inroads  upon  the  frontier,  and  a  little 
whooping  and  yelling  under  the  wails  of 
Fort  Pitt. 

Pontiac,  as  already  mentioned,  was 
principal  chief  of  the  Ottawas.  The  Otta- 
was,  Ojibwas,  and  Pottawattamies,  had 
long  been  united  in  a  loose  kind  of  con- 
federacy, of  which  he  was  the  virtual  head. 
Over  those  around  him  his  authority  was 
almost  despotic,  and  his  power  extended 
far  beyond  the  limits  of  the  three  united 
tribes.  His  influence  was  great  among 
all  the  nations  of  the  Illinois  country; 
while,  from  the  sources  of  the  Ohio  to  those 
of  the  Mississippi,  and,  indeed,  to  the  farth- 
est boundaries  of  the  widespread  Algonquin 
race,  his  name  was  known  and  respected. 

The  fact  that  Pontiac  was  born  the 
son  of  a  chief  would  in  no  degree  account 
for  the  extent  of  his  power;  for,  among 
Indians,  many  a  chief's  son  sinks  back  into 
insignificance,  while  the  offspring  of  a 
common  warrior  may  succeed  to  his  place. 
Among  all  the  wild  tribes  of  the  continent, 
personal  merit  is  indispensable  to  gaining 
or  preserving  dignity.  Courage,  resolu- 
tion, wisdom,  address,  and  eloquence  are 
sure  passports  to  distinction.  With  all 
these  Pontiac  was  pre-eminently  endowed, 
and  it  was  chiefly  to  them,  urged  to  their 
highest  activity  by  a  vehement  ambition, 
that  he  owed  his  greatness.  His  intellect 
was  strong  and  capacious.  He  possessed 
commanding  energy  and  force  of  mind,  and 
in  subtlety  and  craft  could  match  the  best 
of  his  wily  race.  But,  though  capable  of 
acts  of  lofty  magnanimity,  he  was  a 
thorough  savage,  with  a  wider  range  of 
intellect  than  those  around  him,  but  shar- 
ing all  their  passions  and  prejudices, 
their  fierceness  and  treachery.  Yet  his 
faults  were  the  faults  of  his  race;  and  they 
cannot  eclipse  his  nobler  qualities,  the 
great  powers  and  heroic  virtues  of  his 
mind.  His  memory  is  still  cherished 
among  the  remnants  of  many  Algonquin 
tribes,  and  the  celebrated  Tecumseh 
adopted  him  for  his  model,  proving  him- 
self no  unworthy  imitator. 


HISTORY 


293 


Pontiac  was  now  about  fifty  years  old. 
Until  Major  Rogers  came  into  the  coun- 
try, he  had  been,  from  motives  probably 
both  of  interest  and  inclination,  a  firm 
friend  of  the  French.  Not  long  before 
the  French  war  broke  out,  he  had  saved 
the  garrison  of  Detroit  from  the  imminent 
peril  of  an  attack  from  some  of  the  dis- 
contented tribes  of  the  north.  During 
the  war,  he  had  fought  on  the  side  of 
France.  It  is  said  that  he  commanded 
the  Ottawas  at  the  memorable  defeat  of 
Braddock;  but,  at  all  events,  he  was 
treated  with  much  honor  by  the  French 
officers,  and  received  especial  marks  of 
esteem  from  the  Marquis  of  Montcalm. 

We  have  seen  how,  when  the  tide  of 
affairs  changed,  the  subtle  and  ambitious 
chief  trimmed  his  bark  to  the  current, 
and  gave  the  hand  of  friendship  to  the 
English.  That  he  was  disappointed  in 
their  treatment  of  him,  and  in  all  the  hopes 
that  he  had  formed  from  their  alliance,  is 
sufficiently  evident  from  one  of  his 
speeches.  A  new  light  soon  began  to 
dawn  upon  his  untaught  but  powerful 
mind,  and  he  saw  the  altered  posture  of 
affairs  under  its  true  aspect. 

It  was  a  momentous  and  gloomy  crisis 
for  the  Indian  race,  for  never  before  had 
they  been  exposed  to  such  pressing  and 
imminent  danger.  With  the  downfall  of 
Canada,  the  Indian  tribes  had  sunk  at 
once  from  their  position  of  power  and  im- 
portance. Hitherto  the  two  rival  Euro- 
pean nations  had  kept  each  other  in  check 
upon  the  American  continent,  and  the 
Indian  tribes  had,  in  some  measure,  held 
the  balance  of  power  between  them. 
To  conciliate  their  good  will  and  gain 
their  alliance,  to  avoid  offending  them 
by  injustice  and  encroachment,  was  the 
policy  both  of  the  French  and  English. 
But  now  the  face  of  affairs  was  changed. 
The  English  had  gained  an  undisputed 
ascendency,  and  the  Indians,  no  longer 
important  as  allies,  were  treated  as  mere 
barbarians,  who  might  be  trampled  upon 
with  impunity.  Abandoned  to  their  own 
feeble  resources  and  divided  strength,  the 
tribes  must  fast  recede,  and  dwindle  away 
before  the  steady  progress  of  the  colo- 


nial power.  Already  their  best  hunting- 
grounds  were  invaded,  and  from  the 
eastern  ridges  of  the  Alleghanies  they 
might  see,  from  far  and  near,  the  smoke 
of  the  settlers'  clearings,  rising  in  tall 
columns  from  the  dark-green  bosom  of  the 
forest.  The  doom  of  the  race  was  sealed, 
and  no  human  power  could  avert  it;  but 
they,  in  their  ignorance,  believed  other- 
wise, and  vainly  thought  that,  by  a  des 
perate  effort,  they  might  yet  uproot  and 
overthrow  the  growing  strength  of  thei 
destroyers. 

It  would  be  idle  to  suppose  that  tht 
great  mass  of  the  Indians  understood 
in  its  full  extent,  the  danger  which  threat- 
ened their  race.  With  them,  the  war  was 
a  mere  outbreak  of  fury,  and  they  turned 
against  their  enemies  with  as  little  reason 
or  forecast  as  a  panther  when  he  leaps 
at  the  throat  of  the  hunter.  Goaded  by 
wrongs  and  indignities,  they  struck  for 
revenge,  and  relief  from  the  evil  of  the 
moment.  But  the  mind  of  Pontiac  could 
embrace  a  wider  and  deeper  view.  The 
peril  of  the  times  was  unfolded  in  its  full 
extent  before  him,  and  he  resolved  to 
unite  the  tribes  in  one  grand  effort  to 
avert  it.  He  did  not,  like  many  of  his 
people,  entertain  the  absurd  idea  that  the 
Indians,  by  their  unaided  strength,  could 
drive  the  English  into  the  sea.  He  adopt- 
ed the  only  plan  that  was  consistent  with 
reason,  that  of  restoring  the  French  ascen- 
dency hi  the  west,  and  once  more  opposing 
a  check  to  British  encroachment.  With 
views  like  these,  he  lent  a  greedy  ear  to 
the  plausible  falsehoods  of  the  Canadians, 
who  assured  him  that  the  armies  of  King 
Louis  were  already  advancing  to  recover 
Canada,  and  that  the  French  and  their  red 
brethren,  fighting  side  by  side,  would  drive 
the  English  dogs  back  within  their  own 
narrow  limits. 

Revolving  these  thoughts,  and  remem- 
bering moreover  that  his  own  ambitious 
views  might  be  advanced  by  the  hostilities 
he  meditated,  Pontiac  no  longer  hesi- 
tated. Revenge,  ambition,  and  patriot- 
ism, wrought  upon  him  alike,  and  he 
resolved  on  war.  At  the  close  of  the  year 
1762,  he  sent  out  ambassadors  to  the  dif- 


294 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ferent  nations.  They  visited  the  country  of 
the  Ohio  and  its  tributaries,  passed  north- 
ward to. the  region  of  the  upper  lakes,  and 
the  wild  borders  of  the  River  Ottawa;  and 
far  southward  towards  the  mouth  of  the 
Mississippi.  Bearing  with  them  the  war- 
belt  of  wampum,  broad  and  long,  as  the 
importance  of  the  message  demanded; 
and  the  tomahawk  stained  red,  in  token 
of  war;  they  went  from  camp  to  camp, 
and  village  to  village.  Wherever  they 
appeared,  the  sachems  and  old  men  as- 
sembled, to  hear  the  words  of  the  great 
Pontiac.  Then  the  head  chief  of  the 
embassy  flung  down  the  tomahawk  on  the 
ground  before  them,  and  holding  the  war- 
belt  in  his  hand,  delivered,  with  vehement 
gesture,  word  for  word,  the  speech  with 
which  he  was  charged.  It  was  heard 
everywhere  with  approbation;  the  belt 
was  accepted,  the  hatchet  snatched  up, 
and  the  assembled  chiefs  stood  pledged  to 
take  part  in  the  war.  The  blow  was  to 
be  struck  at  a  certain  time  in  the  month  of 
May  following,  to  be  indicated  by  the 
changes  of  the  moon.  The  tribes  were  to 
rise  together,  each  destroying  the  English 
garrison  in  its  neighborhood,  and  then, 
with  a  general  rush,  the  whole  were  to 
turn  against  the  settlements  of  the  frontier. 

The  tribes,  thus  banded  together  against 
the  English,  comprised,  with  a  few  unim- 
portant exceptions,  the  whole  Algonquin 
stock,  to  whom  were  united  the  Wyandots, 
the  Senecas,  and  several  tribes  of  the  lower 
Mississippi.  The  Senecas  were  the  only 
members  of  the  Iroquois  confederacy  who 
joined  in  the  league,  the  rest  being  kept 
quiet  by  the  influence  of  Sir  William  John- 
son, whose  utmost  exertions,  however, 
were  barely  sufficient  to  allay  their  irri- 
tation. 

While  thus  on  the  very  eve  of  an  out- 
break, the  Indians  concealed  their  design 
with  the  deep  dissimulation  of  their 
race.  The  warriors  still  lounged  about 
the  forts,  with  calm,  impenetrable  faces, 
begging  as  heretofore  for  tobacco,  gun- 
powder, and  whiskey.  Now  and  then, 
some  slight  intimation  of  danger  would 
startle  the  garrisons  from  their  security, 
and  an  English  trader,  coming  in  from  the 


Indian  villages,  would  report  that,  from 
their  manner  and  behavior,  he  suspected 
them  of  mischievous  designs.  Some  scoun- 
drel half-breed  would  be  heard  boasting  in 
his  cups  that  before  next  summer  he  would 
have  English  hair  to  fringe  his  hunting- 
frock.  On  one  occasion,  the  plot  was 
nearly  discovered.  Early  hi  March,  1763, 
Ensign  Holmes,  commanding  at  Fort 
Miami,  was  told  by  a  friendly  Indian 
that  the  warriors  in  the  neighboring 
village  had  lately  received  a  war-belt, 
with  a  message  urging  them  to  destroy 
him  and  his  garrison,  and  that  this  they 
were  preparing  to  do.  Holmes  called  the 
Indians  together,  and  boldly  charged  them 
with  their  design.  They  did  as  Indians  on 
such  occasions  have  often  done,  confessed 
their  fault  with  much  apparent  contrition, 
laid  the  blame  on  a  neighboring  tribe, 
and  professed  eternal  friendship  to  their 
brethren  the  English.  Holmes  writes  to 
report  his  discovery  to  Major  Gladwyn, 
who,  in  his  turn,  sends  the  information  to 
Sir  Jeffery  Amherst,  expressing  his  opinion 
that  there  has  been  a  general  irritation 
among  the  Indians,  but  that  the  affair 
will  soon  blow  over,  and  that,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  his  own  post,  the  savages 
were  perfectly  tranquil.  Within  cannon- 
shot  of  the  deluded  officer's  palisades,  was 
the  village  of  Pontiac  himself,  the  arch 
enemy  of  the  English,  and  prime  mover 
in  the  plot. 

With  the  approach  of  spring,  the  Indians, 
coming  in  from  their  wintering  grounds, 
began  to  appear  in  small  parties  about  the 
different  forts;  but  now  they  seldom  entered 
them,  encamping  at  a  little  distance  in  the 
woods.  They  were  fast  pushing  then- 
preparations  for  the  meditated  blow,  and 
waiting  with  stifled  eagerness  for  the 
appointed  hour. 


CHAPTER  vni 

INDIAN  PREPARATION 

I  INTERRUPT  the  progress  of  the  narra- 
tive to  glance  for  a  moment  at  the  Indians 
in  their  military  capacity,  and  observe  how 
far  they  were  qualified  to  prosecute  the 


HISTORY 


295 


formidable  war.  into  which  they  were  about 
to  plunge. 

A  people  living  chiefly  by  the  chase,  and 
therefore,  of  necessity,  thinly  scattered 
over  a  great  space,  divided  into  numerous 
tribes,  held  together  by  no  strong  principle 
of  cohesion,  and  with  no  central  govern- 
ment to  combine  then-  strength,  could  act 
with  little  efficiency  against  such  an  enemy 
as  was  now  opposed  to  them.  Loose 
and  disjointed  as  a  whole,  the  government 
even  of  individual  tribes,  and  of  their 
smallest  separate  communities,  was  too 
feeble  to  deserve  the  name.  There  were, 
it  is  true,  chiefs  whose  office  was  in  a  man- 
ner hereditary;  but  their  authority  was 
wholly  of  a  moral  nature,  and  enforced  by 
no  compulsory  law.  Their  province  was 
to  advise,  and  not  to  command.  Their 
influence,  such  as  it  was,  is  chiefly  to  be 
ascribed  to  the  principle  of  hero-worship, 
natural  to  the  Indian  character,  and  to  the 
reverence  for  age,  which  belongs  to  a 
state  of  society  where  a  patriarchal  ele- 
ment largely  prevails.  It  was  their  office 
to  declare  war  and  make  peace;  but  when 
war  was  declared,  they  had  no  power  to 
rarry  the  declaration  into  effect.  The 
warriors  fought  if  they  chose  to  do  so;  but 
if,  on  the  contrary,  they  preferred  to  re- 
main quiet,  no  man  could  force  them  to 
lift  the  hatchet.  The  war-chief,  whose 
part  it  was  to  lead  them  to  battle,  was  a 
mere  partisan,  whom  his  bravery  and 
exploits  had  led  to  distinction.  If  he 
thought  proper,  he  sang  his  war-song  and 
danced  his  war-dance,  and  as  many  of  the 
young  men  as  were  disposed  to  follow  him 
gathered  around  and  enlisted  themselves 
under  him.  Over  these  volunteers  he  had 
no  legal  authority,  and  they  could  desert 
him  at  any  moment,  with  no  other  penalty 
than  disgrace.  When  several  war-parties, 
of  different  bands  or  tribes,  were  united  in 
a  common  enterprise,  their  chiefs  elected 
a  leader,  who  was  nominally  to  command 
the  whole;  but  unless  this  leader  was  a  man 
of  high  distinction,  and  endowed  with  great 
mental  power,  his  commands  were  disre- 
garded, and  his  authority  was  a  cipher. 
Among  his  followers  was  every  latent  ele- 
ment of  discord,  pride,  jealousy,  and  an- 


cient half-smothered  feuds,  ready  at  any 
moment  to  break  out,  and  tear  the  whole 
asunder.  His  warriors  would  often  desert 
in  bodies;  and  many  an  Indian  army,  be- 
fore reaching  the  enemy's  country,  has 
been  known  to  dwindle  away  until  it  was 
reduced  to  a  mere  scalping  party. 

To  twist  a  rope  of  sand  would  be  as 
easy  a  task  as  to  form  a  permanent  and 
effective  army  of  such  materials.  The 
wild  love  of  freedom,  and  impatience  of 
all  control,  which  mark  the  Indian  race, 
render  them  utterly  intolerant  of  military 
discipline.  Partly  from  their  individual 
character,  and  partly  from  this  absence 
of  subordination,  spring  results  highly 
unfavorable  to  the  efficiency  of  con- 
tinued and  extended  military  operation. 
Indian  warriors,  when  acting  in  large 
masses,  are  to  the  last  degree  wayward, 
capricious,  and  unstable;  infirm  of  pur- 
pose as  a  mob  of  children,  and  devoid  of 
providence  and  foresight.  To  provide 
supplies  for  a  campaign  forms  no  part  of 
then*  system.  Hence  the  blow  must  be 
struck  at  once,  or  not  struck  at  all;  and  to 
postpone  victory  is  to  insure  defeat.  It  is 
when  acting  in  small,  detached  parties, 
that  the  Indian  warrior  puts  forth  his 
energies,  and  displays  his  admirable  ad- 
dress, endurance,  and  intrepidity.  It  is 
then  that  he  becomes  a  truly  formidable 
enemy.  Fired  with  the  hope  of  winning 
scalps,  he  is  staunch  as  a  bloodhound. 
No  hardship  can  divert  him  from  his  pur- 
pose, and  no  danger  subdue  his  patient 
and  cautious  courage. 

From  their  inveterate  passion  for  war, 
the  Indians  are  always  prompt  enough  to 
engage  in  it;  and  on  the  present  occasion, 
the  prevailing  irritation  afforded  ample 
assurance  that  they  would  not  remain  idle. 
While  there  was  little  risk  that  they  would 
capture  any  strong  and  well-defended 
fort,  or  carry  any  important  position, 
there  was,  on  the  other  hand,  every  reason 
to  apprehend  wide-spread  havoc,  and  a 
destructive  war  of  detail.  That  the  war 
might  be  carried  on  with  vigor  and 
effect,  it  was  the  part  of  the  Indian  leaders 
to  work  upon  the  passions  of  their  people, 
and  keep  alive  their  irritation;  to  whet 


2Q6 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


their  native  appetite  for  blood  and  glory, 
and  cheer  them  on  to  the  attack;  to  guard 
against  all  that  might  quench  their 
ardor,  or  abate  their  fierceness;  to  avoid 
pitched  battles;  never  to  fight  except  under 
advantage;  and  to  avail  themselves  of  all 
the  aid  which  surprise,  craft,  and  treach- 
ery could  afford.  The  very  circumstances 
which  unfitted  the  Indians  for  continued 
and  concentrated  attack  were,  in  another 
view,  highly  advantageous,  by  preventing 
the  enemy  from  assailing  them  with  vital 
effect.  It  was  no  easy  task  to  penetrate 
tangled  woods  in  search  of  a  foe,  alert 
and  active  as  a  lynx,  who  would  seldom 
stand  and  fight,  whose  deadly  shot  and 
triumphant  whoop  were  the  first  and  often 
1  the  last  tokens  of  his  presence,  and  who,  at 
the  approach  of  a  hostile  force,  would  vanish 
into  the  black  recesses  of  forests  and  pine 
swamps,  only  to  renew  his  attacks  afresh 
with  unabated  ardor.  There  were  no 
forts  to  capture,  no  magazines  to  destroy, 
and  little  property  to  seize  upon.  No 
species  of  warfare  could  be  more  perilous 
and  harassing  in  its  prosecution,  or  less 
satisfactory  in  its  results. 

The  English  colonies  at  this  time  were 
but  ill  fitted  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  im- 
pending war.  The  army  which  had  con- 
quered Canada  was  now  broken  up  and 
dissolved;  the  provincials  were  disbanded, 
and  most  of  the  regulars  sent  home.  A 
few  fragments  of  regiments,  miserably 
wasted  by  war  and  sickness,  had  just 
arrived  from  the  West  Indies;  and  of  these, 
several  were  already  ordered  to  England, 
to  be  discharged.  There  remained  barely 
troops  enough  to  furnish  feeble  garrisons 
for  the  various  forts  on  the  frontier  and  in 
the  Indian  country.  At  the  head  of  this 
dilapidated  army  was  Sir  Jeffrey  Amherst, 
the  able  and  resolute  soldier  who  had 
achieved  the  reduction  of  Canada.  He 
was  a  man  well  fitted  for  the  emergency; 
cautious,  bold,  active,  far-sighted,  and  en- 
dowed with  a  singular  power  of  breath- 
ing his  own  energy  and  zeal  into  those  who 
served  under  him.  The  command  could 
not  have  been  hi  better  hands;  and  the 
results  of  the  war,  lamentable  as  they 
were,  would  have  been  much  more  dis- 


astrous, but  for  his  promptness  and  vigor, 
and,  above  all,  his  judicious  selection  of 
those  to  whom  he  confided  the  execution 
of  his  orders. 

While  the  war  was  on  the  eve  of  break- 
ing out,  an  event  occurred  which  had 
afterwards  an  important  effect  upon  its 
progress — the  signing  of  the  treaty  of 
peace  at  Paris,  on  the  tenth  of  February, 
1763.  By  this  treaty  France  resigned  her 
claims  to  the  territories  east  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi, and  that  great  river  now  became 
the  western  boundary  of  the  British  co- 
lonial possessions.  In  portioning  out  her 
new  acquisitions  into  separate  govern- 
ments, England  left  the  valley  of  the  Ohio 
and  the  adjacent  regions  as  an  Indian 
domain,  and  by  the  proclamation  of  the 
seventh  of  October  following,  the  intrusion 
of  settlers  upon  these  lands  was  strictly 
prohibited.  Could  these  just  and  neces- 
sary measures  have  been  sooner  adopted, 
it  is  probable  that  the  Indian  war  might 
have  been  prevented,  or,  at  all  events, 
rendered  less  general  and  violent,  for  th  ? 
treaty  would  have  made  it  apparent  that 
the  French  could  never  repossess  them- 
selves of  Canada,  and  have  proved  the 
futility  of  every  hope  which  the  Indians 
entertained  of  assistance  from  that  quarter, 
while,  at  the  same  time,  the  royal  proc- 
lamation would  have  greatly  tended  to 
tranquilize  their  minds,  by  removing  the 
chief  cause  of  irritation.  But  the  remedy 
came  too  late.  While  the  sovereigns  of 
France,  England,  and  Spain  were  signing 
the  treaty  at  Paris,  countless  Indian  war- 
riors in  the  American  forests  were  singing 
the  war-song,  and  whetting  their  scalping- 
knives. 

Throughout  the  western  wilderness,  in  a 
hundred  camps  and  villages,  were  cele- 
brated the  savage  rites  of  war.  Warriors, 
women,  and  children  were  alike  eager  and 
excited;  magicians  consulted  their  oracles, 
and  prepared  charms  to  insure  success; 
while  the  war-chief,  his  body  painted  black 
from  head  to  foot,  withdrawing  from  the 
people,  concealed  himself  among  rocks 
and  caverns,  or  in  the  dark  recesses  of  the 
forest.  Here,  fasting  and  praying,  he 
calls  day  and  night  upon  the  Great  Spirit, 


HISTORY 


297 


consulting  his  dreams,  to  draw  from  them 
auguries  of  good  or  evil;  and  if,  perchance, 
a  vision  of  the  great  war-eagle  seems  to 
hover  over  him  with  expanded  wings,  he 
exults  in  the  full  conviction  of  triumph. 
When  a  few  days  have  elapsed,  he 
emerges  from  his  retreat,  and  the  people 
discover  him  descending  from  the  woods, 
and  approaching  their  camp,  black  as  a 
demon  of  war,  and  shrunken  with  fasting 
and  vigil.  They  flock  around  and  listen 
to  his  wild  harangue.  He  calls  on  them  to 
avenge  the  blood  of  their  slaughtered 
relatives;  he  assures  them  that  the  Great 
Spirit  is  on  their  side,  and  that  victory  is 
certain.  With  exulting  cries  they  disperse 
to  their  wigwams,  to  array  themselves  in 
the  savage  decorations  of  the  war-dress. 
An  old  man  now  passes  through  the  camp, 
and  invites  the  warriors  to  a  feast  in  the 
name  of  the  chief.  They  gather  from  all 
quarters  to  his  wigwam,  where  they  find 
him  seated,  no  longer  covered  with  black, 
but  adorned  with  the  startling  and  fan- 
tastic blazonry  of  the  war-paint.  Those 
who  join  in  the  feast  pledge  themselves, 
by  so  doing,  to  follow  him  against  the 
enemy.  The  guests  seat  themselves  on 
the  ground,  in  a  circle  around  the  wigwam, 
and  the  flesh  of  dogs  is  placed  in  wooden 
dishes  before  them,  while  the  chief, 
though  goaded  by  the  pangs  of  his  long, 
unbroken  fast,  sits  smoking  his  pipe  with 
unmoved  countenance,  and  takes  no  part 
in  the  feast. 

Night  has  now  closed  in,  and  the  rough 
clearing  is  illumined  by  the  blaze  of  fires 
and  burning  pine-knots,  casting  their 
deep  red  glare  upon  the  dusky  boughs  of 
the  tall  surrounding  pine-trees,  and  upon 
the  wild  multitude  who,  fluttering  with 
feathers  and  bedaubed  with  paint,  have 
gathered  for  the  celebration  of  the  war- 
dance.  A  painted  post  is  driven  into 
the  ground,  and  the  crowd  form  a  wide 
circle  around  it.  The  chief  leaps  into 
the  vacant  space,  brandishing  his  hatchet 
as  if  rushing  upon  an  enemy,  and,  in  a 
loud,  vehement  tone,  chants  his  own  ex- 
ploits and  those  of  his  ancestors,  enacting 
the  deeds  which  he  describes,  yelling  the 
war-whoop,  throwing  himself  into  all  the 


postures  of  actual  fight,  striking  the  post 
as  ii  it  were  an  enemy,  and  tearing  the 
scalp  from  the  head  of  the  imaginary  vic- 
tim. Warrior  after  warrior  follows  his 
example,  until  the  whole  assembly,  as  if 
fired  with  sudden  frenzy,  rush  together 
into  the  ring,  leaping,  stamping,  and 
whooping,  brandishing  knives  and  hatch- 
ets in  the  firelight,  hacking  and  stabbing 
the  air,  and  working  themselves  into  the 
fury  of  battle,  while  at  intervals  they  all 
break  forth  into  a  burst  of  ferocious  yells, 
which  sounds  for  miles  away  over  the 
lonely,  midnight  forest. 

In  the  morning,  the  warriors  prepare  to 
depart.  They  leave  the  camp  in  single 
file,  still  decorated  in  all  their  finery  of 
paint,  feathers,  and  scalp-locks;  and,  as 
they  enter  the  woods,  the  chief  fires  his 
gun,  the  warrior  behind  follows  his  ex- 
ample, and  the  discharges  pass  in  slow 
succession  from  front  to  rear,  the  salute 
concluding  with  a  general  whoop.  They 
encamp  at  no  great  distance  from  the  vil- 
lage, and  divest  themselves  of  their  much- 
valued  ornaments,  which  are  carried  back 
by  the  women,  who  have  followed  them 
for  this  purpose.  The  warriors  pursue 
their  journey,  clad  in  the  rough  attire  of 
hard  service,  and  move  silently  and  stealth- 
ily through  the  forest  towards  the  hap- 
less garrison,  or  defenceless  settlement, 
which  they  have  marked  as  their  prey. 

The  woods  were  now  filled  with  war- 
parties  such  as  this,  and  soon  the  first 
tokens  of  the  approaching  tempest  began 
to  alarm  the  unhappy  settlers  of  the  fron- 
tier. At  first,  some  trader  or  hunter,  weak 
and  emaciated,  would  come  in  from  the 
forest,  and  relate  that  his  companions 
had  been  butchered  in  the  Indian  villages, 
and  that  he  alone  had  escaped.  Next 
succeeded  vague  and  uncertain  rumors 
of  forts  attacked  and  garrisons  slaugh- 
tered; and  soon  after,  a  report  gained 
ground  that  every  post  throughout  the 
Indian  country  had  been  taken,  and  every 
soldier  killed.  Close  upon  these  tidings 
came  the  enemy  himself.  The  Indian 
war-parties  broke  out  of  the  woods  like 
gangs  of  wolves,  murdering,  burning,  and 
laying  waste,  while  hundreds  of  terror- 


208 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


stricken  families,  abandoning  their  homes, 
fled  for  refuge  towards  the  older  settle- 
ments, and  all  was  misery  and  ruin. 

Passing  over,  for  the  present,  this  por- 
tion of  the  war,  we  will  penetrate  at  once 
into  the  heart  of  the  Indian  country,  and 
observe  those  passages  of  the  conflict 
which  took  place  under  the  auspices  of 
Pontiac  himself — the  siege  of  Detroit, 
and  the  capture  of  the  interior  posts  and 
garrisons. 

CHAPTER  DC 
THE  COUNCIL  AT  THE  RIVER  ECORCES 

To  BEGIN  the  war  was  reserved  by  Pon- 
tiac as  his  own  peculiar  privilege.  With 
the  first  opening  of  spring  his  preparations 
were  complete.  His  light-footed  messen- 
gers, with  their  wampum  belts  and  gifts  of 
tobacco,  visited  many  a  lonely  hunting- 
camp  hi  the  gloom  of  the  northern  woods, 
and  called  chiefs  and  warriors  to  attend 
the  general  meeting.  The  appointed  spot 
was  on  the  banks  of  the  little  River  Ecor- 
ces,  not  far  from  Detroit.  Thither  went 
Pontiac  himself  with  his  squaws  and  his 
children.  Band  after  band  came  strag- 
gling in  from  every  side,  until  the  meadow 
was  thickly  dotted  with  their  slender 
wigwams.  Here  were  idle  warriors  smok- 
ing and  laughing  in  groups,  or  beguiling  the 
lazy  hours  with  gambling,  with  feasting, 
or  with  doubtful  stories  of  their  own  martial 
exploits.  Here  were  youthful  gallants, 
bedizened  with  all  the  foppery  of  beads, 
feathers,  and  hawk's  bells,  but  held  as 
yet  in  light  esteem,  since  they  had  slain 
no  enemy,  and  taken  no  scalp.  Here 
also  were  young  damsels,  radiant  with 
bears'  oil,  ruddy  with  vermilion,  and 
versed  in  all  the  arts  of  forest  coquetry; 
shrivelled  hags,  with  limbs  of  wire,  and 
voices  like  those  of  screech-owls;  and 
troops  of  naked  children,  with  small, 
black,  mischievous  eyes,  roaming  along 
the  outskirts  of  the  woods. 

The  great  Roman  historian  observes  of 
the  ancient  Germans,  that  when  sum- 
moned to  a  public  meeting,  they  would 
lag  behind  the  appointed  time  in  order  to 


show  their  independence.  The  remark 
holds  true,  and  perhaps  with  greater  em- 
phasis, of  the  American  Indians;  and  thus 
it  happened,  that  several  days  elapsed 
before  the  assembly  was  complete.  In 
such  a  motley  concourse  of  barbarians, 
where  different  bands  and  different  tribes 
were  mustered  on  one  common  camping 
ground,  it  would  need  all  the  art  of  a 
prudent  leader  to  prevent  their  dormant 
jealousies  from  starting  into  open  strife. 
No  people  are  more  prompt  to  quarrel, 
and  none  more  prone,  in  the  fierce  excite- 
ment of  the  present,  to  forget  the  pur- 
pose of  the  future;  yet,  through  good 
fortune,  or  the  wisdom  of  Pontiac,  no  rup- 
ture occurred;  and  at  length  the  last 
loiterer  appeared,  and  further  delay  was 
needless. 

The  council  took  place  on  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  April.  On  that  morning, 
several  old  men,  the  heralds  of  the  camp, 
passed  to  and  fro  among  the  lodges,  call- 
ing the  warriors,  in  a  loud  voice,  to  attend 
the  meeting. 

In  accordance  with  the  summons,  they 
came  issuing  from  their  cabins — the  tall, 
naked  figures  of  the  wild  Ojibwas,  with 
quivers  slung  at  their  backs,  and  light 
war-clubs  resting  in  the  hollow  of  their 
arms;  Ottawas,  wrapped  close  in  their 
gaudy  blankets;  Wyandots,  fluttering  in 
painted  shirts,  their  heads  adorned  with 
feathers,  and  then"  leggings  garnished 
with  bells.  All  were  soon  seated  in  a  wide 
circle  upon  the  grass,  row  within  row,  a 
grave  and  silent  assembly.  Each  savage 
countenance  seemed  carved  in  wood,  an, I 
none  could  have  detected  the  deep  and 
fiery  passions  hidden  beneath  that  im- 
movable exterior.  Pipes  with  ornamented 
stems  were  lighted,  and  passed  from  hand 
to  hand. 

Then  Pontiac  rose,  and  walked  forward 
into  the  midst  of  the  council.  According 
to  Canadian  tradition,  he  was  not  above 
the  middle  height,  though  his  muscular 
figure  was  cast  hi  a  mould  of  remarkable 
symmetry  and  vigor.  His  complexion 
was  darker  than  is  usual  with  Ms  race, 
and  his  features,  though  by  no  means 
regular,  had  a  bold  and  stem  expression, 


HISTORY 


299 


while  his  habitual  bearing  was  imperious 
and  peremptory,  like  that  of  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  sweep  away  all  opposition  by  the 
force  of  his  impetuous  will.  His  ordinary 
attire  was  that  of  the  primitive  savage — a 
scanty  cincture  girt  about  his  loins,  and 
his  long  black  hair  flowing  loosely  at  his 
back;  but  on  occasions  like  this  he  was 
wont  to  appear  as  befitted  his  power  and 
character,  and  he  stood  before  the  council 
plumed  and  painted  hi  the  full  costume  of 
war. 

Looking  round  upon  his  wild  auditors, 
he  began  to  speak,  with  fierce  gesture,  and 
loud,  impassioned  voice;  and  at  every 
pause,  deep  guttural  ejaculations  of  as- 
sent and  approval  responded  to  his  words. 
He  inveighed  against  the  arrogance,  ra- 
pacity, and  injustice  of  the  English,  and 
contrasted  them  with  the  French,  whom 
they  had  driven  from  the  soil.  He  de- 
clared that  the  British  commandant  had 
treated  him  with  neglect  and  contempt; 
that  the  soldiers  of  the  garrison  had  foully 
abused  the  Indians;  and  that  one  of  them 
had  struck  a  follower  of  his  own.  He  repre- 
sented the  danger  that  would  arise  from 
the  supremacy  of  the  English.  They  had 
expelled  the  French,  and  now  they  only 
waited  for  a  pretext  to  turn  upon  the 
Indians  and  destroy  them.  Then,  hold- 
ing out  a  broad  belt  of  wampum,  he  told 
the  council  that  he  had  received  it  from 
their  great  father  the  King  of  France,  in 
token  that  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  his 
red  children;  that  his  sleep  was  at  an  end; 
and  that  his  great  war-canoes  would  soon 
sail  up  the  St.  Lawrence,  to  win  back 
Canada,  and  wreak  vengeance  on  his 
enemies.  The  Indians  and  their  French 
brethren  should  fight  once  more  side  by 
side,  as  they  had  always  fought;  they 
should  strike  the  English  as  they  had 
struck  them  many  moons  ago,  when  their 
great  army  marched  down  the  Monon- 
gahela,  and  they  had  shot  them  from  their 
ambush,  like  a  flock  of  pigeons  in  the 
woods. 

Having  roused  in  his  warlike  listeners 
their  native  thirst  for  blood  and  vengeance, 
he  next  addressed  himself  to  their  super- 
stition, and  told  the  following  tale.  Its 


precise  origin  is  not  easy  to  determine. 
It  is  possible  that  the  Delaware  prophet, 
mentioned  in  a  former  chapter,  may  have 
had  some  part  in  it;  or  it  might  have  been 
the  offspring  of  Pontiac's  heated  imagi- 
nation, during  his  period  of  fasting  and 
dreaming.  That  he  deliberately  invented 
it  for  the  sake  of  the  effect  it  would  pro- 
duce, is  the  least  probable  conclusion  of 
all;  for  it  evidently  proceeds  from  the 
superstitious  mind  of  an  Indian,  brooding 
upon  the  evil  days  in  which  his  lot  was 
cast,  and  turning  for  relief  to  the  myste- 
rious Author  of  his  being.  It  is,  at  all 
events,  a  characteristic  specimen  of  the 
Indian  legendary  tales,  and,  like  many  of 
them,  bears  an  allegoric  significancy.  Yet 
he  who  endeavors  to  interpret  an  Indian 
allegory  through  all  its  erratic  windings 
and  puerile  inconsistencies,  has  under- 
taken no  easy  or  enviable  task. 

"A  Delaware  Indian,"  said  Pontiac, 
"conceived  an  eager  desire  to  learn  wis- 
dom from  the  Master  of  Life;  but,  being 
ignorant  where  to  find  him,  he  had  re- 
course to  fasting,  dreaming,  and  magical 
incantations.  By  these  means  it  was 
revealed  to  him,  that,  by  moving  forward 
in  a  straight,  undeviating  course,  he  would 
reach  the  abode  of  the  Great  Spirit.  He 
told  his  purpose  to  no  one,  and  having 
provided  the  equipments  of  a  hunter — 
gun,  powder-horn,  ammunition,  and  a 
kettle  for  preparing  his  food — he  set 
forth  on  his  errand.  For  some  time  he 
journeyed  on  in  high  hope  and  confidence. 
On  the  evening  of  the  eighth  day,  he 
stopped  by  the  side  of  a  brook  at  the 
edge  of  a  small  prairie,  where  he  began  to 
make  ready  his  evening  meal,  when, 
looking  up,  he  saw  three  large  openings 
hi  the  woods  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
meadow,  and  three  well-beaten  paths 
which  entered  them.  He  was  much  sur- 
prised; but  his  wonder  increased,  when, 
after  it  had  grown  dark,  the  three  paths 
were  more  clearly  visible  than  ever. 
Remembering  the  important  object  of  Ms 
journey,  he  could  neither  rest  nor  sleep; 
and,  leaving  his  fire,  he  crossed  the 
meadow,  and  entered  the  largest  of  the 
three  openings.  He  had  advanced  but  a 


300 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


short  distance  into  the  forest,  when  a 
bright  flame  sprang  out  of  the  ground 
before  him,  and  arrested  his  steps.  In 
great  amazement  he  turned  back,  and 
entered  the  second  path,  where  the  same 
wonderful  phenomenon  again  encountered 
him;  and  now,  in  terror  and  bewilderment, 
yet  still  resolved  to  persevere,  he  pursued 
the  last  of  the  three  paths.  On  this  he 
journeyed  a  whole  day  without  interrup- 
tion, when  at  length,  emerging  from  the 
forest,  he  saw  before  him  a  vast  mountain, 
of  dazzling  whiteness.  So  precipitous 
was  the  ascent,  that  the  Indian  thought 
it  hopeless  to  go  farther,  and  looked  around 
him  in  despair:  at  that  moment  he  saw, 
seated  at  some  distance  above,  the  figure 
of  a  beautiful  woman  arrayed  in  white, 
who  arose  as  he  looked  upon  her,  and  thus 
accosted  him:  'How  can  you  hope,  en- 
cumbered as  you  are,  to  succeed  in  your 
design?  Go  down  to  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  throw  away  your  gun,  your 
ammunition,  your  provisions,  and  your 
clothing;  wash  yourself  hi  the  stream 
which  flows  there,  and  you  will  then  be 
prepared  to  stand  before  the  Master  of 
Life.'  The  Indian  obeyed,  and  again 
began  to  ascend  among  the  rocks,  while 
the  woman,  seeing  him  still  discouraged, 
laughed  at  his  faintness  of  heart,  and  told 
him  that,  if  he  wished  for  success,  he 
must  climb  by  the  aid  of  one  hand  and 
one  foot  only.  After  great  toil  and  suffer- 
ing, he  at  length  found  himself  at  the 
summit.  The  woman  had  disappeared, 
and  he  was  left  alone.  A  rich  and  beauti- 
ful plain  lay  before  him,  and  at  a  little 
distance  he  saw  three  great  villages,  far 
superior  to  the  squalid  dwellings  of  the 
Delawares.  As  he  approached  the 
largest,  and  stood  hesitating  whether  he 
should  enter,  a  man  gorgeously  attired 
stepped  forth,  and,  taking  him  by  the 
hand,  welcomed  him  to  the  celestial  abode. 
He  then  conducted  him  into  the  presence 
of  the  Great  Spirit,  where  the  Indian 
stood  confounded  at  the  unspeakable 
splendor  which  surrounded  him.  The 
Great  Spirit  bade  him  be  seated,  and  thus 
addressed  him: 

"  'I  am  the  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth, 


the  trees,  lakes,  rivers,  and  all  things  else. 
I  am  the  Maker  of  mankind;  and  because 
I  love  you,  you  must  do  my  will.  The 
land  on  which  you  live  I  have  made  for 
you,  and  not  for  others.  Why  do  you 
suffer  the  white  man  to  dwell  among  you? 
My  children,  you  have  forgotten  the  cus- 
toms and  traditions  of  your  forefathers. 
Why  do  you  not  clothe  yourselves  in  skins, 
as  they  did,  and  use  the  bows  and  arrows, 
and  the  stone-pointed  lances,  which  they 
used?  You  have  bought  guns,  knives, 
kettles,  and  blankets  from  the  white  men, 
until  you  can  no  longer  do  without  them; 
and,  what  is  worse,  you  have  drunk  the 
poison  fire-water,  which  turns  you  into 
fools.  Fling  all  these  things  away;  live 
as  your  wise  forefathers  did  before  you. 
And  as  for  these  English — these  dogs 
dressed  in  red,  who  have  come  to  rob 
you  of  your  hunting-grounds,  and  drive 
away  the  game — you  must  lift  the  hatchet 
against  them.  Wipe  them  from  the  face 
of  the  earth,  and  then  you  will  win  my 
favor  back  again,  and  once  more  be 
happy  and  prosperous.  The  children  of 
your  great  father,  the  King  of  France, 
are  not  like  the  English.  Never  forget 
that  they  are  your  brethren.  They  are 
very  dear  to  me,  for  they  love  the  red 
men,  and  understand  the  true  mode  of 
worshipping  me.' 

"The  Great  Spirit  next  gave  his  hearer 
various  precepts  of  morality  and  religion, 
such  as  the  prohibition  to  marry  more 
than  one  wife,  and  a  warning  against  the 
practice  of  magic,  which  is  worshipping 
the  devil.  A  prayer,  embodying  the  sub- 
stance of  all  that  he  had  heard,  was  then 
presented  to  the  Delaware.  It  was  cut 
in  hieroglyphics  upon  a  wooden  stick,  after 
the  custom  of  his  people,  and  he  was 
directed  to  send  copies  of  it  to  all  the 
Indian  villages. 

"The  adventurer  now  departed,  and, 
returning  to  the  earth,  reported  all  the 
wonders  he  had  seen  in  the  celestial  re- 
gions." 

Such  was  the  tale  told  by  Pontiac  to  the 
council;  and  it  is  worthy  of  notice,  that 
not  he  alone,  but  many  of  the  greatest  men 
who  have  arisen  among  the  Indians,  have 


HISTORY 


been  opponents  of  civilization,  and  staunch 
advocates  of  primitive  barbarism.  Red 
Jacket  and  Tecumseh  would  gladly  have 
brought  back  their  people  to  the  wild 
simplicity  of  their  original  condition. 
There  is  nothing  progressive  in  the 
rigid,  inflexible  nature  of  an  Indian.  He 
will  not  open  his  mind  to  the  idea  of  im- 
provement, and  nearly  every  change 
that  has  been  forced  upon  him  has  been  a 
change  for  the  worse. 

Many  other  speeches  were  doubtless 
made  in  the  council,  but  no  record  of  them 
has  been  preserved.  All  present  were 
eager  to  attack  the  British  fort,  and 
Pontiac  told  them,  in  conclusion,  that  on 
the  second  of  May  he  would  gain  admit- 
tance with  a  party  of  his  warriors,  on  pre- 
tence of  dancing  the  calumet  dance  before 
the  garrison;  that  they  would  take  note 
of  the  strength  of  the  fortification,  and, 
this  information  gained,  he  would  sum- 
mon another  council  to  determine  the 
mode  of  attack. 

The  assembly  now  dissolved,  and  all  the 
evening  the  women  were  employed  in  load- 
ing the  canoes,  which  were  drawn  up  on 
the  bank  of  the  stream.  The  encamp- 
ments broke  up  at  so  early  an  hour,  that 
when  the  sun  rose,  the  savage  swarm  had 
melted  away;  the  secluded  scene  was 
restored  to  its  wonted  silence  and  solitude, 
and  nothing  remained  but  the  slender 
framework  of  several  hundred  cabins, 
with  fragments  of  broken  utensils,  pieces 
of  cloth,  and  scraps  of  hide,  scattered 
over  the  trampled  grass,  while  the  smould- 
ering embers  of  numberless  fires  mingled 
their  dark  smoke  with  the  white  mist 
which  rose  from  the  little  river. 

Every  spring,  after  the  winter  hunt  was 
over,  the  Indians  were  accustomed  to  re- 
turn to  their  villages,  or  permanent  en- 
campments, in  the  vicinity  of  Detroit;  and, 
accordingly,  after  the  council  had  broken 
up,  they  made  then-  appearance  as  usual 
about  the  fort.  On  the  first  of  May, 
Pontiac  came  to  the  gate  with  forty  men 
of  the  Ottawa  tribe,  and  asked  permission 
to  enter  and  dance  the  calumet  dance 
before  the  officers  of  the  garrison.  After 
some  hesitation  he  was  admitted;  and 


proceeding  to  the  corner  of  the  street, 
where  stood  the  house  of  the  command- 
ant, Major  Gladwyn,  he  and  thirty  of  his* 
warriors  began  their  dance,  each  recount- 
ing his  own  valiant  exploits,  and  boasting 
himself  the  bravest  of  mankind.  The 
officers  and  men  gathered  around  them; 
while,  in  the  meantime,  the  remaining 
ten  of  the  Ottawas  strolled  about  the  fort, 
observing  everything  it  contained.  When 
the  dance  was  over,  they  all  quietly  with- 
drew, not  a  suspicion  of  their  sinister  design 
having  arisen  in  the  minds  of  the  English. 

After  a  few  days  had  elapsed,  Pon- 
tiac's  messengers  again  passed  among  the 
Indian  cabins,  calling  the  principal  chiefs 
to  another  council,  in  the  Pottawattamie 
village.  Here  there  was  a  large  structure 
of  bark,  erected  for  the  public  use  on  occa- 
sions like  the  present.  A  hundred  chiefs 
were  seated  around  this  dusky  council- 
house,  the  fire  in  the  center  shedding  its- 
fitful  light  upon  their  dark,  naked  forms, 
while  the  sacred  pipe  passed  from  hand  to 
hand.  To  prevent  interruption,  Pon- 
tiac had  stationed  young  men,  as  senti- 
nels, near  the  house.  He  once  more 
addressed  the  chiefs,  inciting  them  to 
hostility  against  the  English,  and  con- 
cluding by  the  proposal  of  his  plan  for 
destroying  Detroit.  It  was  as  follows: 
Pontiac  would  demand  a  council  with  the 
commandant  concerning  matters  of  great 
importance;  and  on  this  pretext  he  flat- 
tered himself  that  he  and  his  principal 
chiefs  would  gain  ready  admittance  within 
the  fort.  They  were  all  to  carry  weapons 
concealed  beneath  their  blankets.  While 
in  the  act  of  addressing  the  commandant 
in  the  council-room,  Pontiac  was  to  make 
a  certain  signal,  upon  which  the  chiefs 
were  to  raise  the  war-whoop,  rush  upon 
the  officers  present,  and  strike  them  down. 
The  other  Indians,  waiting  meanwhile 
at  the  gate,  or  loitering  among  the  houses, 
on  hearing  the  yells  and  firing  within  the 
building,  were  to  assail  the  astonished  and 
half -armed  soldiers;  and  thus  Detroit 
would  fall  an  easy  prey. 

In  opening  this  plan  of  treachery,  Pon- 
tiac spoke  rather  as  a  counsellor  than  as  a 
commander.  Haughty  as  he  was,  he  had 


302 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


too  much  sagacity  to  wound  the  pride  of 
a  body  of  men  over  whom  he  had  no  other 
control  than  that  derived  from  his  per- 
sonal character  and  influence.  No  one 
was  hardy  enough  to  venture  opposition 
to  the  proposal  of  their  great  leader.  His 


plan  was  eagerly  adopted.  Deep,  hoarse 
ejaculations  of  applause  echoed  his  speech; 
and,  gathering  their  blankets  around 
them,  the  chiefs  withdrew  to  their  respect- 
ive villages,  to  prepare  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  unhappy  little  garrison. 


JOHN  RICHARD  GREEN  (1837-1883) 

"A  Short  History  of  the  English  People"  (1874)  is  at  once  the  most  popular  and  the  most  attractively 
written  history  of  the  English  people  that  we  possess.  Green's  literary  gift  was  never  used  to  better 
advantage  than  in  portraying  great  historical  figures,  and  the  portrait  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  which  is 
given  below,  is  among  the  most  memorable  in  the  volume. 


A    SHORT    HISTORY    OF    THE    ENGLISH 
PEOPLE 

PORTRAIT  OF  ELIZABETH 

NEVER  had  the  fortunes  of  England  sunk 
to  a  lower  ebb  than  at  the  moment  when 
Elizabeth  mounted  the  throne.  The  coun- 
try was  humiliated  by  defeat  and  brought 
to  the  verge  of  rebellion  by  the  bloodshed 
and  misgovernment  of  Mary's  reign.  The 
old  social  discontent,  trampled  down  for 
a  time  by  the  horsemen  of  Somerset, 
remained  a  menace  to  public  order.  The 
religious  strife  had  passed  beyond  hope 
of  reconciliation,  now  that  the  reformers 
were  parted  from  their  opponents  by  the 
fires  of  Smithfield  and  the  party  of  the 
New  Learning  all  but  dissolved.  The  more 
earnest  Catholics  were  bound  helplessly 
to  Rome.  The  temper  of  the  Protes- 
tants, burned  at  home  or  driven  into 
exile  abroad,  had  become  a  fiercer  thing, 
and  the  Calvinistic  refugees  were  pouring 
back  from  Geneva  with  dreams  of  revo- 
lutionary change  in  Church  and  State. 
England,  dragged  at  the  heels  of  Philip 
into  a  useless  and  ruinous  war,  was  left 
without  an  ally  save  Spain;  while  France, 
mistress  of  Calais,  became  mistress  of  the 
Channel.  Not  only  was  Scotland  a  stand- 
ing danger  in  the  north,  through  the 
French  marriage  of  its  Queen  Mary  Stuart 
and  its  consequent  bondage  to  French 
policy;  but  Mary  Stuart  and  her  husband 
now  assumed  the  style  and  arms  of  Eng- 
lish sovereigns,  and  threatened  to  rouse 
every  Catholic  throughout  the  realm 
against  Elizabeth's  title.  In  presence  of 
tkus  host  of  dangers  the  country  lay  help- 


less, without  army  or  fleet,  or  the  means  of 
manning  one,  for  the  treasury,  already 
drained  by  the  waste  of  Edward's  reign, 
had  been  utterly  exhausted  by  Mary's 
restoration  of  the  Church-lands  in  pos- 
session of  the  Crown,  and  by  the  cost  of  her 
war  with  France. 

England's  one  hope  lay  in  the  character 
of  her  Queen.  Elizabeth  was  now  in  her 
twenty-fifth  year.  Personally  she  had 
more  than  her  mother's  beauty;  her  figure 
was  commanding,  her  face  long  but 
queenly  and  intelligent,  her  eyes  quick  and 
fine.  She  had  grown  up  amidst  the  liberal 
culture  of  Henry's  court  a  bold  horse- 
woman, a  good  shot,  a  graceful  dancer, 
a  skilled  musician,  and  an  accomplished 
scholar.  She  studied  every  morning  the 
Greek  Testament,  and  followed  this  by 
the  tragedies  of  Sophocles  or  orations  of 
Demosthenes,  and  could  "rub  up  her 
rusty  Greek"  at  need  to  bandy  pedantry 
with  a  Vice-Chancellor.  But  she  was 
far  from  being  a  mere  pedant.  The 
new  literature  which  was  springing  up 
around  her  found  constant  welcome  in  her 
court.  She  spoke  Italian  and  French 
as  fluently  as  her  mother-tongue.  She 
was  familiar  with  Ariosto  and  Tasso. 
Even  amidst  the  affectation  and  love  of 
anagrams  and  puerilities  which  sullied 
her  later  years,  she  listened  with  delight 
to  the  "Faery  Queen,"  and  found  a  smile 
for  "Master  Spenser"  when  he  appeared 
in  her  presence.  Her  moral  temper  re- 
called in  its  strange  contrasts  the  mixed 
blood  within  her  veins.  She  was  at  once 
the  daughter  of  Henry  and  of  Anne  Boleyn. 
From  her  father  she  inherited  her  frank 


HISTORY 


303 


and  'hearty  address,  her  love  of  popularity 
and  of  free  intercourse  with  the  people, 
her  dauntless  courage  and  her  amazing 
self-confidence.  Her  harsh,  manlike  voice, 
her  impetuous  will,  her  pride,  her  furious 
outbursts  of  anger  came  to  her  with  her 
Tudor  blood.  She  rated  great  nobles  as 
if  they  were  schoolboys;  she  met  the  in- 
solence of  Essex  with  a  box  on  the  ear; 
she  would  break  now  and  then  into  the 
gravest  deliberations  to  swear  at  her  min- 
isters like  a  fishwife.  But  strangely  in 
contrast  with  the  violent  outlines  of  her 
Tudor  temper  stood  the  sensuous,  self- 
indulgent  nature  she  derived  from  Anne 
Boleyn.  Splendor  and  pleasure  were 
with  Elizabeth  the  very  air  she  breathed. 
Her  delight  was  to  move  in  perpetual 
progresses  from  castle  to  castle  through  a 
series  of  gorgeous  pageants,  fanciful  and 
extravagant  as  a  caliph's  dream.  She 
loved  gaiety  and  laughter  and  wit.  A 
happy  retort  or  a  finished  compliment 
never  failed  to  win  her  favor.  She 
hoarded  jewels.  Her  dresses  were  innu- 
merable. Her  vanity  remained,  even  to  old 
age,  the  vanity  of  a  coquette  in  her  teens. 
No  adulation  was  too  fulsome  for  her,  no 
flattery  of  her  beauty  too  gross.  "To 
see  her  was  heaven,"  Hatton  told  her, 
"the  lack  of  her  was  hell."  She  would 
play  with  her  rings  that  her  courtiers 
might  note  the  delicacy  of  her  hands; 
or  dance  a  coranto  that  the  French  am- 
bassador, hidden  dexterously  behind  a 
curtain,  might  report  her  sprightliness  to 
his  master.  Her  levity,  her  frivolous 
laughter,  her  unwomanly  jests  gave  color 
to  a  thousand  scandals.  Her  character 
in  fact,  like  her  portraits,  was  utterly  with- 
out shade.  Of  womanly  reserve  or  self- 
restraint  she  knew  nothing.  No  instinct 
of  delicacy  veiled  the  voluptuous  temper 
which  had  broken  out  in  the  romps  of  her 
girlhood  and  showed  itself  almost  osten- 
tatiously throughout  her  later  life.  Per- 
sonal beauty  in  a  man  was  a  sure  passport 
to  her  liking.  She  patted  handsome  young 
squires  on  the  neck  when  they  knelt  to  kiss 
her  hand,  and  fondled  her  "sweet  Robin," 
Lord  Leicester,  in  the  face  of  the  court. 
It  was  no  wonder  that  the  statesmen 


whom  she  outwitted  held  Elizabeth  almost 
to  the  last  to  be  little  more  than  a  frivo- 
lous woman,  or  that  Philip  of  Spam  won- 
dered how  "a  wanton"  could  hold  in  check 
the  policy  of  the  Escurial.  But  the 
Elizabeth  whom  they  saw  was  far  from 
being  all  of  Elizabeth.  The  wilfulness 
of  Henry,  the  triviality  of  Anne  Boleyn 
played  over  the  surface  of  a  nature  hard 
as  steel,  a  temper  purely  intellectual,  the 
very  type  of  reason  untouched  by  imagi- 
nation or  passion.  Luxurious  and  pleas- 
ure-loving as  she  seemed,  Elizabeth  lived 
simply  and  frugally,  and  she  worked  hard. 
Her  vanity  and  caprice  had  no  weight 
whatever  with  her  in  state  affairs.  The 
coquette  of  the  presence-chamber  became 
the  coolest  and  hardest  of  politicians  at  the 
council-board.  Fresh  from  the  flattery 
of  her  courtiers,  she  would  tolerate  no 
flattery  in  the  closet;  she  was  herself 
plain  and  downright  of  speech  with  her 
counsellors,  and  she  looked  for  a  corre- 
sponding plainness  of  speech  hi  return.  If 
any  trace  of  her  sex  lingered  in  her  actual 
statesmanship,  it  was  seen  in  the  sim- 
plicity and  tenacity  of  purpose  that  often 
underlies  a  woman's  fluctuations  of  feeling. 
It  was  this  in  part  which  gave  her  her 
marked  superiority  over  the  statesmen 
of  her  tune.  No  nobler  group  of  ministers 
ever  gathered  round  a  council-board  than 
those  who  gathered  round  the  council- 
board  of  Elizabeth.  But  she  was  the 
instrument  of  none.  She  listened,  she 
weighed,  she  used  or  put  by  the  counsels 
of  each  hi  turn,  but  her  policy  as  a  whole 
was  her  own.  It  was  a  policy,  not  of 
genius,  but  of  good  sense.  Her  aims  were 
simple  and  obvious:  to  preserve  her  throne, 
to  keep  England  out  of  war,  to  restore 
civil  and  religious  order.  Something  of 
womanly  caution  and  timidity  perhaps 
backed  the  passionless  indifference  with 
which  she  set  aside  the  larger  schemes  of 
ambition  which  were  ever  opening  before 
her  eyes.  She  was  resolute  hi  her  refusal 
of  the  Low  Countries.  She  rejected  with 
a  laugh  the  offers  of  the  Protestants  to 
make  her  "head  of  the  religion"  and 
"mistress  of  the  seas."  But  her  amazing 
success  in  the  end  sprang  mainly  from  this 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


wise  limitation  of  her  aims.  She  had  a 
finer  sense  than  any  of  her  counsellors  of 
her  real  resources;  she  knew  instinctively 
how  far  she  could  go,  and  what  she  could 
do.  Her  cold,  critical  intellect  was  never 
swayed  by  enthusiasm  or  by  panic  either 
to  exaggerate  or  to  underestimate  her 
risks  or  her  power. 

Of  political  wisdom  indeed  in  its  larger 
/nd  more  generous  sense  Elizabeth  had 
little  or  none;  but  her  political  tact  was 
unerring.  She  seldom  saw  her  course  at  a 
glance,  but  she  played  with  a  hundred 
courses,  fitfully  and  discursively,  as  a 
musician  runs  his  fingers  over  the  key- 
board, till  she  hit  suddenly  upon  the  right 
one.  Her  nature  was  essentially  practical 
and  of  the  present.  She  distrusted  a  plan 
in  fact  just  in  proportion  to  its  specula- 
tive range  or  its  outlook  into  the  future. 
Her  notion  of  statesmanship  lay  in  watch- 
ing how  things  turned  out  around  her, 
and  in  seizing  the  moment  for  making  the 
best  of  them.  A  policy  of  this  limited, 
practical,  tentative  order  was  not  only 
best  suited  to  the  England  of  her  day,  to  its 
small  resources  and  the  transitional  char- 
acter of  its  religious  and  political  belief, 
but  it  was  one  eminently  suited  to  Eliza- 
beth's peculiar  powers.  It  was  a  policy 
of  detail,  and  in  details  her  wonderful 
readiness  and  ingenuity  found  scope  for 
their  exercise.  "No  War,  my  Lords," 
the  Queen  used  to  cry  imperiously  at  the 
council-board,  "No  War!"  but  her  hatred 
v>f  war  sprang  less  from  her  aversion  to 
blood  or  to  expense,  real  as  was  her  aver- 
sion to  both,  than  from  the  fact  that  peace 
left  the  field  open  to  the  diplomatic  ma- 
noeuvres and  intrigues  in  which  she  excelled. 
Her  delight  in  the  consciousness  of  her 
ingenuity  broke  out  in  a  thousand  puckish 
freaks,  freaks  in  which  one  can  hardly  see 
any  purpose  beyond  the  purpose  of  sheer 
mystification.  She  revelled  in  "bye- 
ways"  and  "crooked  ways."  She  played 
with  grave  cabinets  as  a  cat  plays  with  a 
mouse,  and  with  much  of  the  same  feline 
delight  in  the  mere  embarrassment  of 
her  victims.  When  she  was  weary  of 
mystifying  foreign  statesmen  she  turned 
to  find  fresh  sport  hi  mystifying  her  own 


ministers.  Had  Elizabeth  written  the 
story  of  her  reign  she  would  have  prided 
herself,  not  on  the  triumph  of  England  or 
the  ruin  of  Spain,  but  on  the  skill  with 
which  she  had  hoodwinked  and  outwitted 
every  statesman  in  Europe  during  fifty 
years.  Nor  was  her  trickery  without 
political  value.  Ignoble,  inexpressibly 
wearisome  as  the  Queen's  diplomacy  seems 
to  us  now,  tracing  it  as  we  do  through  a 
thousand  despatches,  it  succeeded  in  its 
mam  end.  It  gained  time,  and  every 
year  that  was  gained  doubled  Elizabeth's 
strength.  Nothing  is  more  revolting  in 
the  Queen,  but  nothing  is  more  characters 
istic,  than  her  shameless  mendacity.  It 
was  an  age  of  political  lying,  but  in  the 
profusion  and  recklessness  of  her  lies 
Elizabeth  stood  without  a  peer  in  Chris- 
tendom. A  falsehood  was  to  her  simply 
an  intellectual  means  of  meeting  a  dif- 
ficulty; and  the  ease  with  which  she  as- 
serted or  denied  whatever  suited  her  pur- 
pose was  only  equalled  by  the  cynical 
indifference  with  which  she  met  the  ex- 
posure of  her  lies  as  soon  as  their  purpose 
was  answered.  The  same  purely  intellec- 
tual view  of  things  showed  itself  in  the 
dexterous  use  she  made  of  her  very  faults. 
Her  levity  carried  her  gaily  over  moments 
of  detection  and  embarrassment  where 
better  women  would  have  died  of  shame. 
She  screened  her  tentative  and  hesitating 
statesmanship  under  the  natural  timidity 
and  vacillation  of  her  sex.  She  turned 
her  very  luxury  and  sports  to  good  ac- 
count. There  were  moments  of  grave 
danger  in  her  reign  when  the  country 
remained  indifferent  to  its  perils,  as  it 
saw  the  Queen  give  her  days  to  hawking 
and  hunting,  and  her  nights  to  dancing 
and  plays.  Her  vanity  and  affectation, 
her  womanly  fickleness  and  caprice,  all 
had  their  part  in  the  diplomatic  comedies 
she  played  with  the  successive  candidates 
for  her  hand.  If  political  necessities 
made  her  life  a  lonely  one,  she  had  at  any 
rate  the  satisfaction  of  averting  war  and 
conspiracies  by  love  sonnets  and  romantic 
interviews,  or  of  gaining  a  year  of  tran- 
quillity by  the  dexterous  spinning  out  of  a 
flirtation. 


HISTORY 


305 


As  we  track  Elizabeth  through  her  tor- 
tuous mazes  of  lying  and  intrigue,  the 
sense  of  her  greatness  is  almost  lost  in  a 
sense  of  contempt.  But  wrapped  as 
they  were  in  a  cloud  of  mystery,  the  aims 
of  her  policy  were  throughout  temperate 
and  simple,  and  they  were  pursued  with  a 
singular  tenacity.  The  sudden  acts  of 
energy  which  from  time  to  time  broke  her 
habitual  hesitation  proved  that  it  was  no 
hesitation  of  weakness.  Elizabeth  could 
wait  and  finesse;  but  when  the  hour  was 
come  she  could  strike,  and  strike  hard. 
Her  natural  temper  indeed  tended  to  a 
rash  self-confidence  rather  than  to  self- 
distrust.  She  had,  as  strong  natures  al- 
ways have,  an  unbounded  confidence  in 
her  luck.  "  Her  Majesty  counts  much  on 
Fortune,"  Walsingham  wrote  bitterly;  "I 
wish  she  would  trust  more  in  Almighty 
God."  The  diplomatists  who  censured  at 
one  moment  her  irresolution,  her  delay, 
her  changes  of  front,  censure  at  the  next 
her  "  obstinacy,"  her  iron  will,  her  defiance 
of  what  seemed  to  them  inevitable  ruin. 
"This  woman,"  Philip's  envoy  wrote 
after  a  wasted  remonstrance,  "this  woman 
is  possessed  by  a  hundred  thousand 
devils."  To  her  own  subjects,  indeed, 
who  knew  nothing  of  her  manoeuvres  and 
retreats,  of  her  "bye- ways"  and  "crooked 
ways,"  she  seemed  the  embodiment  of 
dauntless  resolution.  Brave  as  they  were, 
the  men  who  swept  the  Spanish  Main  or 
glided  between  the  icebergs  of  Baffin's 
Bay  never  doubted  that  the  palm  of 
bravery  lay  with  their  Queen.  Her  stead- 
iness and  courage  in  the  pursuit  of  her  aims 
was  equaled  by  the  wisdom  with  which 
she  chose  the  men  to  accomplish  them. 
She  had  a  quick  eye  for  merit  of  any  sort, 
and  a  wonderful  power  of  enlisting  its 
whole  energy  in  her  service.  The  sa- 
gacity which  chose  Cecil  and  Walsingham 
was  just  as  unerring  in  its  choice  of  the 
meanest  of  her  agents.  Her  success  in- 
deed in  securing  from  the  beginning  of  her 
reign  to  its  end,  with  the  single  exception 
of  Leicester,  precisely  the  right  men  for 
the  work  she  set  them  to  do  sprang  in 
great  measure  from  the  noblest  character- 
istic of  her  intellect.  If  in  loftiness  of  aim 


her  temper  fell  below  many  of  the  temper*, 
of  her  time,  in  the  breadth  of  its  range,  in 
the  universality  of  its  sympathy  it  stood 
far  above  them  all.  Elizabeth  could  talk 
poetry  with  Spenser  and  philosophy  with 
Bruno;  she  could  discuss  Euphuism  with 
Lyly,  and  enjoy  the  chivalry  of  Essex; 
she  could  turn  from  talk  of  the  last  fash- 
ions to  pore  with  Cecil  over  despatches 
and  treasury  books;  she  could  pass  from 
tracking  traitors  with  Walsingham  to 
settle  points  of  doctrine  with  Parker,  or  to 
calculate  with  Frobisher  the  chances  of  a 
northwest  passage  to  the  Indies.  The 
versatility  and  many-sidedness  of  her  mind 
enabled  her  to  understand  every  phase  of 
the  intellectual  movement  of  her  day,  and 
to  fix  by  a  sort  of  instinct  on  its  higher 
representatives.  But  the  greatness  of 
the  Queen  rests  above  all  on  her  power 
over  her  people.  We  have  had  grander 
and  nobler  rulers,  but  none  so  popular  as 
Elizabeth.  The  passion  of  love,  of  loyalty, 
of  admiration  which  finds  its  most  perfect 
expression  in  the  "Faery  Queen,"  throb- 
bed as  intensely  through  the  veins  of  her 
meanest  subjects.  To  England,  during 
her  reign  of  half  a  century,  she  was  a  virgin 
and  a  Protestant  Queen;  and  her  im- 
morality, her  absolute  want  of  religious 
enthusiasm,  failed  utterly  to  blur  the 
brightness  of  the  national  ideal.  Her 
worst  acts  broke  fruitlessly  against  the 
general  devotion.  A  Puritan,  whose  hand 
she  cut  off  in  a  freak  of  tyrannous  resent- 
ment, waved  his  hat  with  the  hand  that 
was  left,  and  shouted  "God  save  Queen 
Elizabeth!"  Of  her  faults,  indeed,  Eng- 
land beyond  the  circle  of  her  court  knew 
little  or  nothing.  The  shiftings  of  her 
diplomacy  were  never  seen  outside  the 
royal  closet.  The  nation  at  large  could 
only  judge  her  foreign  policy  by  its  main 
outlines,  by  its  temperance  and  good  sense, 
and  above  all  by  its  success.  But  every 
Englishman  was  able  to  judge  Elizabeth 
in  her  rule  at  home,  in  her  love  of  peace, 
her  instinct  of  order,  the  firmness  and 
moderation  of  her  government,  the  judi- 
cious spirit  of  conciliation  and  compromise 
among  warring  factions  which  gave  the 
country  an  unexampled  tranquillity  at 


306 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


a  time  when  almost  every  other  country  in 
Europe  was  torn  with  civil  war.  Every 
sign  of  the  growing  prosperity,  the  sight  of 
London  as  it  became  the  mart  of  the 
world,  of  stately  mansions  as  they  rose  on 
every  manor,  told,  and  justly  told,  in 
Elizabeth's  favor.  In  one  act  of  her 
civil  administration  she  showed  the  bold- 
ness and  originality  of  a  great  ruler;  for 
the  opening  of  her  reign  saw  her  face  the 
social  difficulty  which  had  so  long  im- 
peded English  progress,  by  the  issue  of  a 
commission  of  inquiry  which  ended  in  the 
solution  of  the  problem  by  the  system  of 
poor-laws.  She  lent  a  ready  patronage 
to  the  new  commerce;  she  considered  its 
extension  and  protection  as  a  part  of 
public  policy,  and  her  statue  in  the  center 
of  the  London  Exchange  was  a  tribute  on 
the  part  of  the  merchant  class  to  the 
interest  with  which  she  watched  and 
shared  personally  in  its  enterprises.  Her 
thrift  won  a  general  gratitude.  The 
memories  of  the  Terror  and  of  the  Martyrs 
threw  into  bright  relief  the  aversion  from 
bloodshed  which  was  conspicuous  in  her 
earlier  reign,  and  never  wholly  wanting 
through  its  fiercer  close.  Above  all  there 
was  a  general  confidence  in  her  instinctive 
knowledge  of  the  national  temper.  Her 
finger  was  always  on  the  public  pulse. 
She  knew  exactly  when  she  could  resist 
the  feeling  of  her  people,  and  when  she 
must  give  way  before  the  new  sentiment 
of  freedom  which  her  policy  unconsciously 
fostered.  But  when  she  retreated,  her 
defeat  had  all  the  grace  of  victory;  and 
the  frankness  and  unreserve  of  her  sur- 
render won  back  at  once  the  love  that  her 
resistance  had  lost.  Her  attitude  at  home 
in  fact  was  that  of  a  woman  whose  pride 
in  the  well-being  of  her  subjects,  and  whose 
longing  for  their  favor,  was  the  one  warm 
touch  in  the  coldness  of  her  natural  temper. 
If  Elizabeth  could  be  said  to  love  any- 
thing, she  loved  England.  "Nothing," 
she  said  to  her  first  Parliament  in  words 
of  unwonted  fire,  "nothing,  no  worldly 
thing  under  the  sun,  is  so  dear  to  me  as 
the  love  and  good-will  of  my  subjects." 
And  the  love  and  good-will  which  were  so 
dear  to  her  she  fully  won. 


She  clung  perhaps  to  her  popularity  the 
more  passionately  that  it  hid  in  some  meas- 
ure from  her  the  terrible  loneliness  of  her 
life.  She  was  the  last  of  the  Tudors,  the 
last  of  Henry's  children;  and  her  nearest 
relatives  were  Mary  Stuart  and  the  House 
of  Suffolk,  one  the  avowed,  the  other  the 
secret  claimant  of  her  throne.  Among 
her  mother's  kindred  she  found  but  a 
single  cousin.  Whatever  womanly  ten- 
derness she  had,  wrapt  itself  around  Leices- 
ter; but  a  marriage  with  Leicester  was  im- 
possible, and  every  other  union,  could  she 
even  have  bent  to  one,  was  denied  to  her 
by  the  political  difficulties  of  her  position. 
The  one  cry  of  bitterness  which  burst 
from  Elizabeth  revealed  her  terrible  sense 
of  the  solitude  of  her  life.  "The  Queen 
of  Scots,"  she  cried  at  the  birth  of  James, 
"has  a  fair  son,  and  I  am  but  a  barren 
stock."  But  the  loneliness  of  her  posi- 
tion only  reflected  the  loneliness  of  her 
nature.  She  stood  utterly  apart  from 
the  world  around  her,  sometimes  above  it, 
sometimes  below  it,  but  never  of  it.  It 
was  only  on  its  intellectual  side  that 
Elizabeth  touched  the  England  of  her 
day.  All  its  moral  aspects  were  simply 
dead  to  her.  It  was  a  time  when  men 
were  being  lifted  into  nobleness  by  the 
new  moral  energy  which  seemed  suddenly 
to  pulse  through  the  whole  people,  when 
honor  and  enthusiasm  took  colors  of 
poetic  beauty,  and  religion  became  a 
chivalry.  But  the  finer  sentiments  of  the 
men  around  her  touched  Elizabeth  simply 
as  the  fair  tints  of  a  picture  would  have 
touched  her.  She  made  her  market  with 
equal  indifference  out  of  the  heroism  of 
William  of  Orange  or  the  bigotry  of 
Philip.  The  noblest  aims  and  lives  were 
only  counters  on  her  board.  She  was  the 
one  soul  in  her  realm  whom  the  news  of 
St.  Bartholomew  stirred  to  no  thirst 
for  vengeance;  and  while  England  was 
thrilling  with  its  triumph  over  the  Ar- 
mada, its  Queen  was  coolly  grumbling  over 
the  cost,  and  making  her  profit  out  of  the 
spoiled  provisions  she  had  ordered  for  the 
fleet  that  saved  her.  To  the  voice  of 
gratitude,  indeed,  she  was  for  the  most 
part  deaf.  She  accepted  services  such  as 


HISTORY 


307 


were  never  rendered  to  any  other  English 
sovereign  without  a  thought  of  return. 
Walsingham  spent  his  fortune  in  saving 
her  life  and  her  throne,  and  she  left  him  to 
die  a  beggar.  But,  as  if  by  a  strange  irony, 
it  was  to  this  very  want  of  sympathy 
that  she  owed  some  of  the  grander  fea- 
tures of  her  character.  If  she  was  without 
love  she  was  without  hate.  She  cherished 
no  petty  resentments;  she  never  stooped 
to  envy  or  suspicion  of  the  men  who  served 
her.  She  was  indifferent  to  abuse.  Her 
good-humor  was  never  ruffled  by  the 
charges  of  wantonness  and  cruelty  with 
which  the  Jesuits  filled  every  Court  in 
Europe.  She  was  insensible  to  fear. 
Her  life  became  at  last  the  mark  for  as- 
sassin after  assassin,  but  the  thought  of 
peril  was  the  one  hardest  to  bring  home  to 
her.  Even  when  the  Catholic  plots  broke 
out  in  her  very  household  she  would  listen 
to  no  proposals  for  the  removal  of  Cath- 
olics from  her  court. 

It  was  this  moral  isolation  which  told  so 
strangely  both  for  good  and  for  evil  on  her 
policy  towards  the  Church.  The  young 
Queen  was  not  without  a  sense  of  religion. 
But  she  was  almost  wholly  destitute  of 
spiritual  emotion,  or  of  any  consciousness 
of  the  vast  questions  with  which  theology 
strove  to  deal.  While  the  world  around 
her  was  being  swayed  more  and  more  by 
theological  beliefs  and  controversies, 
Elizabeth  was  absolutely  untouched  by 
them.  She  was  a  child  of  the  Italian 
Renascence  rather  than  of  the  New  Learn- 
ing of  Colet  or  Erasmus,  and  her  attitude 
towards  the  enthusiasm  of  her  time  was 
that  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  towards  Sa- 
vonarola. Her  mind  was  unruffled  by  the 
spiritual  problems  which  were  vexing  the 
minds  around  her;  to  Elizabeth  indeed 
they  were  not  only  unintelligible,  they 
were  a  little  ridiculous.  She  had  the  same 
intellectual  contempt  for  the  superstition 
of  the  Romanist  as  for  the  bigotry  of  the 
Protestant.  While  she  ordered  Catholic 
images  to  be  flung  into  the  fire,  she  quiz- 
zed the  Puritans  as  "brethren  in  Christ." 
But  she  had  no  sort  of  religious  aversion 
from  either  Puritan  or  Papist.  The 
Protestants  grumbled  at  the  Catholic 


nobles  whom  she  admitted  to  the  presence. 
The  Catholics  grumbled  at  the  Protestant 
statesmen  whom  she  called  to  her  council- 
board.  But  to  Elizabeth  the  arrange- 
ment was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.  She  looked  at  theological  dif- 
ferences in  a  purely  political  light.  She 
agreed  with  Henry  the  Fourth  that  a 
kingdom  was  well  worth  a  mass.  It 
seemed  an  obvious  thing  to  her  to  hold 
out  hopes  of  conversion  as  a  means  of 
deceiving  Philip,  or  to  gain  a  point  in 
negotiations  by  restoring  the  crucifix  to 
her  chapel.  The  first  interest  in  her  own 
mind  was  the  interest  of  public  order,  and 
she  never  could  understand  how  it  could 
fail  to  be  first  in  every  one's  mind.  Her 
ingenuity  set  itself  to  construct  a  system 
in  which  ecclesiastical  unity  should  not 
jar  against  the  rights  of  conscience;  a 
compromise  which  merely  required  outer 
"conformity"  to  the  established  worship 
while,  as  she  was  never  weary  of  repeating, 
it  "left  opinion  free."  She  fell  back  from 
the  very  first  on  the  system  of  Henry  the 
Eighth.  "  I  will  do,"  she  told  the  Spanish 
ambassador,  "as  my  father  did."  She 
opened  negotiations  with  the  Papal  See, 
tUl  the  Pope's  summons  to  submit  her 
claim  of  succession  to  the  judgment  of 
Rome  made  compromise  impossible.  The 
first  work  of  her  Parliament  was  to  de- 
clare her  legitimacy  and  title  to  the  crown, 
to  restore  the  royal  supremacy,  and  to 
abjure  all  foreign  authority  and  juris- 
diction. At  her  entry  into  London  Eliza- 
beth kissed  the  English  Bible  which  the 
citizens  'presented  to  her  and  promised 
"diligently  to  read  therein."  Further  she 
had  no  personal  wish  to  go.  A  third  of 
the  Council  and  at  least  two-thirds  of  the 
people  were  as  opposed  to  any  radical 
changes  in  religion  as  the  Queen.  Among 
the  gentry  the  older  and  wealthier  were  on 
the  conservative  side,  and  only  the 
younger  and  meaner  on  the  other.  But 
it  was  soon  necessary  to  go  further.  If 
the  Protestants  were  the  less  numerous, 
they  were  the  abler  and  the  more  vigorous 
party;  and  the  exiles  who  returned  from 
Geneva  brought  with  them  a  fiercer  ha- 
tred of  Catholicism.  To  every  Protestant 


3o8 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


the  Mass  was  identified  with  the  fires  of 
Smithfield,  while  Edward's  Prayer-book 
was  hallowed  by  the  memories  of  the 
Martyrs.  But  if  Elizabeth  won  the 
Protestants  by  an  Act  of  Uniformity 
which  restored  the  English  Prayer-book 
and  enforced  its  use  on  the  clergy  on  pain 
of  deprivation,  the  alterations  she  made 
in  its  language  showed  her  wish  to  con- 
ciliate the  Catholics  as  far  as  possible. 
She  had  no  mind  merely  to  restore  the 
system  of  the  Protectorate.  She  dropped 
the  words  "Head  of  the  Church"  from  the 
royal  title.  The  forty-two  Articles  which 
Cranmer  had  drawn  up  were  left  in 
abeyance.  If  Elizabeth  had  had  her  will, 
she  would  have  retained  the  celibacy  of 
the  clergy  and  restored  the  use  of  cruci- 
fixes in  the  churches.  In  part  indeed  of 
her  effort  she  was  foiled  by  the  increased 
bitterness  of  the  reformers.  The  London 
mob  tore  down  the  crosses  in  the  streets. 
Her  attempt  to  retain  the  crucifix  or 
enforce  the  celibacy  of  the  priesthood  fell 
dead  before  the  opposition  of  the  Pro- 
testant clergy.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Marian  bishops,  with  a  single  exception, 
discerned  the  Protestant  drift  of  the 
changes  she  was  making,  and  bore  impris- 
onment and  deprivation  rather  than 
accept  the  oath  required  by  the  Act  of 
Supremacy.  But  to  the  mass  of  the 
nation  the  compromise  of  Elizabeth  seems 
to  have  been  fairly  acceptable.  The  bulk 
of  the  clergy,  if  they  did  not  take  the  oath, 
practically  submitted  to  the  Act  of  Su- 
premacy and  adopted  the  Prayer-book. 
Of  the  few  who  openly  refused  only  two 
hundred  were  deprived,  and  many  went 
unharmed.  No  marked  repugnance  to 
the  new  worship  was  shown  by  the  people 
at  large;  and  Elizabeth  was  able  to  turn 
from  questions  of  belief  to  the  question 
of  order. 

She  found  in  Matthew  Parker,  whom 
Pole's  death  enabled  her  to  raise  to  the 
see  of  Canterbury,  an  agent  in  the  reor- 
ganization of  the  Church  whose  patience 
and  moderation  were  akin  to  her  own. 
Theologically  the  Primate  was  a  moderate 
man,  but  he  was  resolute  to  restore  order 
in  the  discipline  and  worship  of  the 


Church.  The  whole  machinery  of  English 
religion  had  been  thrown  out  of  gear  by 
the  rapid  and  radical  changes  of  the  past 
two  reigns.  The  majority  of  the  parish 
priests  were  still  Catholic  in  heart;  some- 
times mass  was  celebrated  at  the  parson- 
age for  the  more  rigid  Catholics,  and  the 
new  communion  in  church  for  the  more 
rigid  Protestants.  Sometimes  both  parties 
knelt  together  at  the  same  altar-rails,  the 
one  to  receive  hosts  consecrated  by  the 
priest  at  home  after  the  old  usage,  the 
other  wafers  consecrated  in  Church  after 
the  new.  In  many  parishes  of  the  north 
no  change  of  service  was  made  at  all.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  new  Protestant  clergy 
were  often  unpopular,  and  roused  the 
disgust  of  the  people  by  their  violence 
and  greed.  Chapters  plundered  their  own 
estates  by  leases  and  fines  and  by  felling 
timber.  The  marriages  of  the  clergy 
became  a  scandal,  which  was  increased 
when  the  gorgeous  vestments  of  the  old 
worship  were  cut  up  into  gowns  and  bodices 
for  the  priests'  wives.  The  new  services 
sometimes  turned  into  scenes  of  utter  dis- 
order where  the  clergy  wore  what  dress 
they  pleased  and  the  communicant  stood 
or  sate  as  he  liked;  while  the  old  altars 
were  broken  down  and  the  communion- 
table was  often  a  bare  board  upon  trestles. 
The  people,  naturally  enough,  were  found 
to  be  "utterly  devoid  of  religion,"  and 
came  to  church  "as  to  a  May  game." 
To  the  difficulties  which  Parker  found  in 
the  temper  of  the  reformers  and  their 
opponents  new  difficulties  were  added  by 
the  freaks  of  the  Queen.  If  she  had  no 
convictions,  she  had  tastes;  and  her  taste 
revolted  from  the  bareness  of  Protestant 
ritual  and  above  all  from  the  marriage  of 
priests.  "Leave  that  alone,"  she  shouted 
to  Dean  Nowell  from  the  royal  closet  as 
he  denounced  the  use  of  images — "stick 
to  your  text,  Master  Dean,  leave  that 
alone!"  When  Parker  was  firm  in  resist- 
ing the  introduction  of  the  crucifix  or  of 
celibacy,  Elizabeth  showed  her  resent- 
ment at  his  firmness  by  an  insult  to  his 
wife.  Married  ladies  were  addressed  at 
this  time  as  "Madam,"  unmarried  ladies 
as  "Mistress;"  and  when  Mrs.  Parker 


HISTORY 


309 


advanced  at  the  close  of  a  sumptuous 
entertainment  at  Lambeth  to  take  leave 
of  the  Queen,  Elizabeth  feigned  a  momen- 
tary hesitation.  "Madam,"  she  said  at 
last,  "I  may  not  call  you,  and  Mistress  I 
am  loth  to  call  you;  however,  I  thank  you 
for  your  good  cheer."  To  the  end  of  her 
reign  indeed  Elizabeth  remained  as  bold 
a  plunderer  of  the  wealth  of  the  bishops 
as  either  of  her  predecessors,  and  carved 
out  rewards  for  her  ministers  from  the 
Church-lands  with  a  queenly  disregard  of 
the  rights  of  property.  Lord  Burleigh 
built  up  the  estate  of  the  house  of  Cecil 
out  of  the  demesnes  of  the  see  of  Peter- 
borough. The  neighborhood  of  Hat- 
ton  Garden  to  Ely  Place  recalls  the  spolia- 
tion of  another  bishopric  in  favor  of  the 


Queen's  sprightly  chancellor.  Her  reply 
to  the  bishop's  protest  against  this  rob- 
bery showed  what  Elizabeth  meant  by 
her  Ecclesiastical  Supremacy.  "Proud 
prelate,"  she  wrote,  "you  know  what  you 
were  before  I  made  you  what  you  are! 
If  you  do  not  immediately  comply  with 
my  request,  by  God,  I  will  unfrock  you." 
But  freaks  of  this  sort  had  little  real  in- 
fluence beside  the  steady  support  which 
the  Queen  gave  to  the  Primate  in  his  work 
of  order.  She  suffered  no  plunder  save  her 
own,  and  she  was  earnest  for  the  restoration 
of  order  and  decency  in  the  outer  arrange- 
ments of  the  Church.  The  vacant  sees  were 
filled  for  the  most  part  with  learned  and 
able  men;  and  England  seemed  to  settle 
quietly  down  in  a  religious  peace. 


VI 

BIOGRAPHY, 
PLUTARCH  (about  50-120  A.  D.) 

Plutarch  was  the  great  biographer  of  Greece  and  Rome.  As  a  portrayer  of  character,  as  a  painter 
of  great  scenes,  and  as  a  moralist  of  a  high  order,  he  has  hardly  been  surpassed  since  he  wrote.  The 
life  selected  should  have  peculiar  interest,  portraying  as  it  does  the  great  sea-captain  who  led  the  Athen- 
ians in  encompassing  the  defeat  of  the  Persian  armada. 

The  translaticn  is  that  revised  by  Arthur  Hugh  dough. 


THEMISTOCLES 

THE  birth  of  Themistocles  was  some- 
what too  obscure  to  do  him  honor.  His 
father,  Neocles,  was  not  of  the  distin- 
guished people  of  Athens,  but  of  the  town- 
ship of  Phrearrhi,  and  of  the  tribe  Leontis; 
and  by  his  mother's  side,  as  it  is  reported, 
he  was  base-born 

"I  am  not  of  the  noble  Grecian  race, 
I'm  poor  Abrotonon,  and  born  in  Thrace; 
Let  the  Greek  women  scorn  me,  if  they  please, 
I  was  the  mother  of  Themistocles." 

Yet  Phanias  writes  that  the  mother  of 
Themistocles  was  not  of  Thrace  but  of 
Caria,  and  that  her  name  was  not  Abro- 
tonon, but  Euterpe;  and  Neanthes  add& 
farther  that  she  was  of  Halicarnassus  in 
Caria.  And,  as  illegitimate  children,  in- 
cluding those  that  were  of  half-blood  or 
had  but  one  parent  an  Athenian,  had  to 
attend  at  the  Cynosarges  (a  wrestling- 
place  outside  the  gates,  dedicated  to 
Hercules,  who  was  also  of  half-blood 
amongst  the  gods,  having  had  a  mortal 
woman  for  his  mother),  Themistocles 
persuaded  several  of  the  young  men  of  high 
birth  to  accompany  him  to  anoint  and 
exercise  themselves  together  at  Cyno- 
sarges; an  ingenious  device  for  destroying 
the  distinction  between  the  noble  and  the 
base-born,  and  between  those  of  the  whole 
and  those  of  the  half-blood  of  Athens. 
However,  it  is  certain  that  he  was  re- 
lated to  the  house  of  the  Lycomedae;  for 
Simonides  records  that  he  rebuilt  the 


chapel  of  Phlya,  belonging  to  that  family, 
and  beautified  it  with  pictures  and  other 
ornaments,  after  it  had  been  burnt  by 
the  Persians. 

It  is  confessed  by  all  that  from  his  youth 
he  was  of  a  vehement  and  impetuous 
nature,  of  a  quick  apprehension,  and  a 
strong  and  aspiring  bent  for  action  ana 
great  affairs.  The  holidays  and  inter- 
vals in  his  studies  he  did  not  spend  in  play 
or  idleness,  as  other  children,  but  would 
be  always  inventing  or  arranging  some 
oration  or  declamation  to  himself,  the 
subject  of  which  was  generally  the  excus- 
ing or  accusing  his  companions,  so  that  his 
master  would  often  say  to  him,  "You,  my 
boy,  will  be  nothing  small,  but  great  one 
way  or  other,  for  good  or  else  for  bad."  He 
received  reluctantly  and  carelessly  instruc- 
tions given  him  to  improve  his  manners  and 
behavior,  or  to  teach  him  any  pleasing  or 
graceful  accomplishment,  but  whatever 
was  said  to  improve  him  in  sagacity,  or 
in  management  of  affairs,  he  would  give 
attention  to,  beyond  one  of  his  years,  from 
confidence  in  his  natural  capacities  for 
such  things.  And  thus  afterwards,  when 
in  company  where  people  engage  them- 
selves in  what  are  commonly  thought  the 
liberal  and  elegant  amusements,  he  was 
obliged  to  defend  himself  against  the  ob- 
servations of  those  who  considered  them- 
selves highly  accomplished,  by  the  some- 
what arrogant  retort,  that  he  certainly 
could  not  make  use  of  any  stringed  in- 
strument, could  only,  were  a  small  and 
obscure  city  put  into  his  hands,  make  it 


310 


BIOGRAPHY 


great  and  glorious.  Notwithstanding  this, 
Stesimbrotus  says  that  Themistocles  was 
a  hearer  of  Anaxagoras,  and  that  he 
studied  natural  philosophy  under  Melissus, 
contrary  to  chronology;  Melissus  com- 
manded the  Samians  in  the  siege  by  Per- 
icles, who  was  much  Themistocles 's  ju- 
nior; and  with  Pericles,  also,  Anaxagoras 
was  intimate.  They,  therefore,  might 
rather  be  credited  who  report,  that 
Themistocles  was  an  admirer  of  Mnes- 
iphilus  the  Phrearrhian,  who  was  neither 
rhetorician  nor  natural  philosopher,  but 
a  professor  of  that  which  was  then  called 
wisdom,  consisting  in  a  sort  of  political 
shrewdness  and  practical  sagacity,  which 
had  begun  and  continued,  almost  like  a 
sect  of  philosophy,  from  Solon:  but  those 
who  came  afterwards,  and  mixed  it  with 
pleadings  and  legal  artifices,  and  trans- 
formed the  practical  part  of  it  into  a  mere 
art  of  speaking  and  an  exercise  of  words, 
were  generally  called  sophists.  Themis- 
tocles resorted  to  Mnesiphilus  when  he 
had  already  embarked  in  politics. 

In  the  first  essays  of  his  youth  he  wks  not 
regular  nor  happily  balanced;  he  allowed 
himself  to  follow  mere  natural  character, 
which,  without  the  control  of  reason  and 
instruction,  is  apt  to  hurry,  upon  either 
side,  into  sudden  and  violent  courses,  and 
very  otten  to  break  away  and  determine 
upon  the  worst;  as  he  afterwards  owned 
himself,  saying,  that  the  wildest  colts  make 
the  best  horses,  if  they  only  get  properly 
trained  and  broken  in.  But  those  who 
upon  this  fasten  stories  of  their  own  inven- 
tion, as  of  his  being  disowned  by  his  father, 
and  that  his  mother  died  for  grief  of  her 
son's  ill-fame,  certainly  calumniate  him; 
and  there  are  others  who  relate,  on  the. 
contrary,  how  that  to  deter  him  from  pub- 
lic business,  and  to  let  him  see  how  the 
vulgar  behave  themselves  towards  their 
leaders  when  they  have  at  last  no  farther 
use  of  them,  his  father  showed  him  the 
old  galleys  as  they  lay  forsaken  and  cast 
about  upon  the  sea-shore. 

Yet  it  is  evident  that  his  mind  was  early 
imbued  with  the  keenest  interest  in  public 
affairs,  and  the  most  passionate  ambition 
for  distinction.  Eager  from  the  first  to 


obtain  the  highest  place,  he  unhesitat- 
ingly accepted  the  hatred  of  the  most 
powerful  and  influential  leaders  in  the 
city,  but  more  especially  of  Aristides,  the 
son  of  Lysimachus,  who  always  opposed 
him.  And  yet  all  this  great  enmity  be- 
tween them  arose,  it  appears,  from  a  very 
boyish  occasion,  both  being  attached  to 
the  beautiful  Stesilaus  of  Ceos,  as  Ariston 
the  philosopher  tells  us;  ever  after  which 
they  took  opposite  sides,  and  were  rivals 
in  politics.  Not  but  that  the  incom- 
patibility of  their  lives  and  manners  may 
seem  to  have  increased  the  difference,  for 
Aristides  was  of  a  mild  nature,  and  of  a 
nobler  sort  of  character,  and,  in  public 
matters,  acting  always  with  a  view,  not 
to  glory  or  popularity,  but  to  the  best 
interest  of  the  state  consistently  with 
safety  and  honesty,  he  was  often  forced 
to  oppose  Themistocles,  and  interfere 
against  the  increase  of  his  influence, 
seeing  him  stirring  up  the  people  to  all 
kinds  of  enterprises,  and  introducing 
various  innovations.  For  it  is  said  that 
Themistocles  was  so  transported  with  the 
thoughts  of  glory,  and  so  inflamed  with 
the  passion  for  great  actions,  that,  though 
he  was  still  young  when  the  battle  of 
Marathon  was  fought  against  the  Per- 
sians, upon  the  skilful  conduct  of  the  gen- 
eral, Miltiades,  being  everywhere  talked 
about,  he  was  observed  to  be  thoughtful 
and  reserved,  alone  by  himself;  he  passed 
the  nights  without  sleep,  and  avoided  all 
his  usual  places  of  recreation,  and  to  those 
who  wondered  at  the  change,  and  inquired 
the  reason  of  it,  he  gave  the  answer,  that 
"  the  trophy  of  Miltiades  would  not  let  him 
sleep."  And  when  others  were  of  opinion 
that  the  battle  of  Marathon  would  be  an 
end  to  the  war,  Themistocles  thought  that 
it  was  but  the  beginning  of  far  greater 
conflicts,  and  for  these,  to  the  benefit 
of  all  Greece,  he  kept  himself  in  continual 
readiness,  and  his  city  also  in  proper  train- 
ing, foreseeing  from  far  before  what  would 
happen. 

And,  first  of  all,  the  Athenians  being 
accustomed  to  divide  amongst  them- 
selves the  revenue  proceeding  from  the 
silver  mines  at  Laurium,  he  was  the  only 


312 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


man  that  durst  propose  to  the  people  that 
this  distribution  should  cease,  and  that 
with  the  money  ships  should  be  built  to 
make  war  against  the  ^Eginetans,  who 
were  the  most  flourishing  people  in  all 
Greece,  and  by  the  number  of  their  ships 
held  the  sovereignty  of  the  sea;  and 
Themistocles  thus  was  more  easily  able 
to  persuade  them,  avoiding  all  mention 
of  danger  from  Darius  or  the  Persians, 
who  were  at  a  great  distance,  and  their 
coming  very  uncertain,  and  at  that  time 
not  much  to  be  feared;  but  by  a  seasonable 
employment  of  the  emulation  and  anger 
felt  by  the  Athenians  against  the  ^Egine- 
tans,  he  induced  them  to  preparation. 
So  that  with  this  money  an  hundred  ships 
were  built,  with  which  they  afterwards 
fought  against  Xerxes.  And  hencefor- 
ward, little  by  little,  turning  and  drawing 
the  city  down  towards  the  sea,  in  the  belief 
that,  whereas  by  land  they  were  not  a  fit 
mftch  for  their  next  neighbors,  with 
their  ships  they  might  be  able  to  repel 
the  Persians  and  command  Greece,  thus, 
as  Plato  says,  from  steady  soldiers  he 
turned  them  into  mariners  and  seamen 
tossed  about  the  sea,  and  gave  occasion 
for  the  reproach  against  him,  that  he 
took  away  from  the  Athenians  the  spear 
and  the  shield,  and  bound  them  to  the 
bench  and  the  oar.  These  measures  he 
carried  in  the  assembly,  against  the  oppo- 
sition, as  Stesimbrotus  relates,  of  Mil- 
tiades;  and  whether  or  no  he  hereby  in- 
jured the  purity  and  true  balance  of  gov- 
ernment may  be  a  question  for  philoso- 
phers, but  that  the  deliverance  of  Greece 
came  at  that  time  from  the  sea,  and  that 
these  galleys  restored  Athens  again  after 
it  was  destroyed,  were  others  wanting, 
Xerxes  himself  would  be  sufficient  evi- 
dence, who,  though  his  land-forces  were 
still  entire,  after  his  defeat  at  sea,  fled 
away,  and  thought  himself  no  longer  able 
to  encounter  the  Greeks;  and,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  left  Mardonius  behind  him,  not 
out  of  any  hopes  he  could  have  to  bring 
them  into  subjection,  but  to  hinder  them 
from  pursuing  him. 

Themistocles  is  said  to  have  been  eager 
in  the  acquisition  of  riches,  according  to 


some,  that  he  might  be  the  more  liberal; 
for  loving  to  sacrifice  often,  and  to  be 
splendid  in  his  entertainment  of  strangers, 
he  required  a  plentiful  revenue,  yet  he  is 
accused  by  others  of  having  been  par- 
simonious and  sordid  to  that  degree  that 
he  would  sell  provisions  which  were  sent 
to  him  as  a  present.  He  desired  Diph- 
ilides,  who  was  a  breeder  of  horses,  to 
give  him  a  colt,  and  when  he  refused  it, 
threatened  that  in  a  short  time  he  would 
turn  his  house  into  a  wooden  horse,  inti- 
mating that  he  would  stir  up  dispute  and 
litigation  between  him  and  some  of  his 
relations. 

He  went  beyond  all  men  in  the  passion 
for  distinction.  When  he  was  still  young 
and  unknown  in  the  world,  he  entreated 
Episcles  of  Hermione,  who  had  a  good 
hand  at  the  lute  and  was  much  sought 
after  by  the  Athenians,  to  come  and  prac- 
tice at  home  with  him,  being  ambitious 
of  having  people  inquire  after  his  house 
and  frequent  his  company.  When  he 
came  to  the  Olympic  games,  and  was  so 
splendid  in  his  equipage  and  entertain-, 
ments,  in  his  rich  tents  and  furniture,' 
that  he  strove  to  outdo  Cimon,  he  dis- 
pleased the  Greeks,  who  thought  that 
such  magnificence  might  be  allowed  in 
one  who  was  a  young  man  and  of  a  great 
family,  but  was  a  great  piece  of  insolence 
in  one  as  yet  undistinguished,  and  with- 
out title  or  mtttns  for  making  any  such 
display  In  a  dramatic  contest,  the  play 
he  paid  for  won  the  prize,  which  was  then 
a  matter  that  excited  much  emulation 
he  put  up  a  tablet  in  record  of  it,  with  th » 
inscription:  "Themistocles  of  Phrearrh^ 
was  at  the  charge  of  it;  Phrynichus  made 
it;  Adimantus  was  archon."  He  was  well 
liked  by  the  common  people,  would  salute 
every  particular  citizen  by  his  own  name, 
and  always  show  himself  a  just  judge 
in  questions  of  business  between  private 
men;  he  said  to  Simonides,  the  poet  of 
Ceos,  who  desired  something  of  him, 
when  he  was  commander  of  the  army, 
that  was  not  reasonable,  "  Simonides, 
you  would  be  no  good  poet  if  you  wrote 
false  measure,  nor  should  I  be  a  good  mag- 
istrate if  for  favor  I  made  false  law." 


BIOGRAPHY 


And  atanother  time,  laughing  atSimonides, 
he  said,  that  he  was  a  man  of  little  judg- 
ment to  speak  against  the  Corinthians, 
who  were  inhabitants  of  a  great  city,  and 
to  have  his  own  picture  drawn  so  often, 
having  so  ill-looking  a  face. 

Gradually  growing  to  be  great,  and 
winning  the  favor  of  the  people,  he  at 
last  gained  the  day  with  his  faction  over 
that  of  Aristides,  and  procured  his  banish- 
ment by  ostracism.  When  the  king  of 
Persia  was  now  advancing  against  Greece, 
and  the  Athenians  were  in  consultation 
who  should  be  general,  and  many  with- 
drew themselves  of  their  own  accord, 
being  terrified  with  the  greatness  of  the 
danger,  there  was  one  Epicydes,  a  popular 
speaker,  son  to  Euphemides  a  man  of  an 
elegant  tongue,  but  of  a  faint  heart,  and 
a  slave  to  riches,  who  was  desirous  of 
the  command,  and  was  looked  upon  to  be 
in  a  fair  way  to  carry  it  by  the  number  of 
votes;  but  Themistocles,  fearing  that,  if 
the  command  should  fall  into  such  hands, 
all  would  be  lost,  bought  off  Epicydes  and 
his  pretensions,  it  is  said,  for  a  sum  of 
money. 

When  the  king  of  Persia  sent  messen- 
gers into  Greece,  with  an  interpreter,  to 
demand  earth  and  water,  as  an  acknowl- 
edgement of  subjection,  Themistocles,  by 
the  consent  of  the  people,  seized  upon  the 
interpreter,  and  put  him  to  death,  for 
presuming  to  publish  the  barbarian  orders 
and  decrees  in  the  Greek  language;  this 
is  one  of  the  actions  he  is  commended  for, 
as  also  for  what  he  did  to  Arthmius  of 
Zelea,  who  brought  gold  from  the  king  of 
Persia  to  corrupt  the  Greeks,  and  was,  by 
an  order  from  Themistocles,  degraded  and 
disfranchised,  he  and  his  children  and  his 
posterity;  but  that  which  most  of  all 
redounded  to  his  credit  was,  that  he  put 
an  end  to  all  the  civil  wars  of  Greece, 
composed  their  differences,  and  persuaded 
them  to  lay  aside  all  enmity  during  the 
war  with  the  Persians;  and  in  this  great 
work,  Chileus  the  Arcadian  was,  it  is  said, 
of  great  assistance  to  him. 

Having  taken  upon  himself  the  com- 
mand of  the  Athenian  forces,  he  imme- 
diately endeavored  to  persuade  the  citi- 


zens to  leave  the  city,  and  to  embark  upon 
their  galleys,  and  meet  with  the  Persians 
at  a  great  distance  from  Greece ;  but  many 
being  against  this,  he  led  a  large  force, 
together  with  the  Lacedaemonians,  into 
Tempe,  that  in  this  pass  they  might  main- 
tain the  safety  of  Thessaly,  which  had  not 
as  yet  declared  for  the  king;  but  when  they 
returned  without  performing  anything, 
and  it  was  known  that  not  only  the  Thes- 
salians,  but  all  as  far  as  Boeotia,  was  going 
over  to  Xerxes,  then  the  Athenians  more 
willingly  hearkened  to  the  advice  of  The- 
mistocles to  fight  by  sea,  and  sent  him  with 
a  fleet  to  guard  the  straits  of  Artemisium. 

When  the  contingents  met  here,  the 
Greeks  would  have  the  Lacedaemonians 
to  command,  and  Eurybiades  to  be  their 
admiral;  but  the  Athenians,  who  sur- 
passed all  the  rest  together  in  number  of 
vessels,  would  not  submit  to  come  after 
any  other,  till  Themistocles,  perceiving 
the  danger  of  the  contest,  yielded  his  own 
command  to  Eurybiades,  and  got  the 
Athenians  to  submit,  extenuating  the 
loss  by  persuading  them,  that  if  in  this 
war  they  behaved  themselves  like  men, 
he  would  answer  for  it  after  that,  that  the 
Greeks,  of  their  own  will,  would  submit  to 
their  command.  And  by  this  moderation 
of  his,  it  is  evident  that  he  was  the  chief 
means  of  the  deliverance  of  Greece,  and 
gained  the  Athenians  the  glory  of  alike 
surpassing  their  enemies  in  valor,  and 
then*  confederates  in  wisdom. 

As  soon  as  the  Persian  armada  arrived 
at  Aphetas,  Eurybiades  was  astonished 
to  see  such  a  vast  number  of  vessels  before 
him,  and  being  informed  that  two  hun- 
dred more  were  sailing  around  behind  the 
island  of  Sciathus,  he  immediately  deter- 
mined to  retire  farther  into  Greece,  and  to 
sail  back  into  some  part  of  Peloponnesus, 
where  their  land  army  and  their  fleet 
might  join,  for  he  looked  upon  the  Per- 
sian forces  to  be  altogether  unassailable 
by  sea.  But  the  Eubceans,  fearing  that 
the  Greeks  would  forsake  them,  and  leave 
them  to  the  mercy  of  the  enemy,  sent 
Pelagon  to  confer  privately  with  The- 
mistocles, taking  with  him  a  good  sum  of 
money,  which,  as  Herodotus  reports,  he 


314 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


accepted  and  gave  to  Eurybiades.  In 
this  affair  none  of  his  own  countrymen 
opposed  him  so  much  as  Architeles,  cap- 
tain of  the  sacred  galley,  who,  having  no 
money  to  supply  his  seamen,  was  eager  to 
go  home;  but  Themistocles  so  incensed  the 
Athenians  against  him,  that  they  set 
upon  him  and  left  him  not  so  much  as  his 
supper,  at  which  Architeles  was  much  sur- 
prised, and  took  it  very  ill;  but  Themis- 
tocles immediately  sent  him  in  a  chest  a 
service  of  provisions,  and  at  the  bottom 
of  it  a  talent  of  silver,  desiring  him  to  sup 
to-night,  and  to-morrow  provide  for  his 
seamen;  if  not,  he  would  report  it  among 
the  Athenians  that  he  had  received  money 
from  the  enemy.  So  Phanias  the  Les- 
bian tells  the  story. 

Though  the  fights  between  the  Greeks 
and  Persians  in  the  straits  of  Eubcea 
were  not  so  important  as  to  make  any 
final  decision  of  the  war,  yet  the  expe- 
rience which  the  Greeks  obtained  in  them 
was  of  great  advantage;  for  thus,  by  actual 
trial  and  in  real  danger,  they  found  out 
that  neither  number  of  ships,  nor  riches 
and  ornaments,  nor  boasting  shouts,  nor 
barbarous  songs  of  victory,  were  any  way 
terrible  to  men  that  knew  how  to  fight, 
and  were  resolved  to  come  hand  to  hand 
with  their  enemies;  these  things  they  were 
to  despise,  and  to  come  up  close  and 
grapple  with  their  foes.  This  Pindar 
appears  to  have  seen,  and  says  justly 
enough  of  the  fight  at  Artemisium,  that — 

"There  the  sons  of  Athens  set 
The  stone  that  freedom  stands  on  yet." 

For  the  first  step  towards  victory  un- 
doubtedly is  to  gain  courage.  Arte- 
misium is  in  Eubcea,  beyond  the  city  of 
Histiaea,  a  sea-beach  open  to  the  north; 
most  nearly  opposite  to  it  stands  Olizon, 
in  the  country  which  formally  was  under 
Philoctetes;  there  is  a  small  temple  there, 
dedicated  to  Diana,  surnamed  of  the  Dawn, 
and  trees  about  it,  around  which  again 
stand  pillars  of  white  marble;  and  if  you 
rub  them  with  your  hand,  they  send  forth 
both  the  smell  and  color  of  saffron.  On 
one  of  these  pillars  these  verses  are  en- 
graved:— 


"With  numerous  tribes  from  Asia's  region  brought 
The  sons  of  Athens  on  these  waters  fought; 
Erecting,  after  they  had  quelled  the  Mede, 
To  Artemis  this  record  of  the  deed." 

There  is  a  place  still  to  be  seen  upon  this 
shore,  where,  in  the  middle  of  a  great  heap 
of  sand,  they  take  out  from  the  bottom 
a  dark  powder  like  ashes,  or  something 
that  has  passed  the  fire;  and  here,  it  is 
supposed,  the  shipwrecks .  and  bodies  of 
the  dead  were  burnt. 

But  when  news  came  from  Thermopylae 
to  Artemisium  informing  them  that  king 
Leonidas  was  slain,  and  that  Xerxes  had 
made  himself  master  of  all  the  passages  by 
land,  they  returned  back  to  the  interior 
of  Greece,  the  Athenians  having  the  com- 
mand of  the  rear,  the  place  of  honor  and 
danger,  and  much  elated  by  what  had 
been  done. 

As  Themistocles  sailed  along  the  coasts, 
he  took  notice  of  the  harbors  and  fit 
places  for  the  enemy's  ships  to  come  to 
land  at,  and  engraved  large  letters  in  such 
stones  as  he  found  there  by  chance,  as  also 
in  others  which  he  set  up  on  purpose  near 
to  the  landing-places,  or  where  they  were 
to  water;  in  which  inscriptions  he  called 
upon  the  lonians  to  forsake  the  Medes,  if 
it  were  possible,  and  to  come  over  to  the 
Greeks,  who  were  their  proper  founders 
and  fathers,  and  were  now  hazarding  all 
for  their  liberties;  but,  if  this  could  not  be 
done,  at  any  rate  to  impede  and  disturb 
the  Persians  in  all  engagements.  He 
hoped  that  these  writings  would  prevail 
with  the  lonians  to  revolt,  or  raise  some 
trouble  by  making  their  fidelity  doubtful 
to  the  Persians. 

Now,  though  Xerxes  had  already  passed 
through  Doris  and  invaded  the  country 
of  Phocis,  and  was  burning  and  destroy- 
ing the  cities  of  the  Phocians,  yet  the 
Greeks  sent  them  no  relief;  and,  though 
the  Athenians  earnestly  desired  them 
to  meet  the  Persians  in  Bceotia,  before 
they  could  come  into  Attica,  as  they 
themselves  had  come  forward  by  sea  at 
Artemisium,  they  gave  no  ear  to  their  re- 
quests, being  wholly  intent  upon  Pelo- 
ponnesus, and  resolved  to  gather  all  their 
forces  together  within  the  Isthmus,  and 


BIOGRAPHY 


to  build  a  wall  from  sea  to  sea  in  that  nar- 
row neck  of  land;  so  that  the  Athenians 
were  enraged  to  see  themselves  betrayed, 
and  at  the  same  time  afflicted  and  dejected 
at  their  own  destitution.  For  to  fight 
alone  against  such  a  numerous  army  was 
to  no  purpose,  and  the  only  expedient 
now  left  them  was  to  leave  their  city  and 
cling  to  their  ships;  which  the  people 
were  very  unwilling  to  submit  to,  imagin- 
ing that  it  would  signify  little  now  to  gain 
a  victory,  and  not  understanding  how 
there  could  be  deliverance  any  longer  after 
they  had  once  forsaken  the  temples  of  their 
gods  and  exposed  the  tombs  and  monu- 
ments of  their  ancestors  to  the  fury  of 
their  enemies. 

Themistocles,  being  at  a  loss,  and  not 
able  to  draw  the  people  over  to  his  opinion 
by  any  human  reason,  set  his  machines  to 
work,  as  in  a  theater,  and  employed  prod- 
igies and  oracles.  The  serpent  of  Mi- 
nerva, kept  in  the  inner  part  of  her  temple, 
disappeared;  the  priest  gave  it  out  to  the 
people  that  the  offerings  which  were  set 
for  it  were  found  untouched,  and  declared, 
by  the  suggestion  of  Themistocles,  that 
the  goddess  had  left  the  city,  and  taken 
her  flight  before  them  towards  the  sea. 
And  he  often  urged  them  with  the  oracle 
which  bade  them  trust  to  walls  of  wood, 
showing  them  that  walls  of  wood  could 
signify  nothing  else  but  ships;  and  that 
the  island  of  Salamis  was  termed  in  it,  not 
miserable  or  unhappy,  but  had  the  epithet 
of  divine,  for  that  it  should  one  day  be 
associated  with  a  great  good  fortune  of  the 
Greeks.  At  length  his  opinion  prevailed, 
and  he  obtained  a  decree  that  the  city 
should  be  committed  to  the  protection 
of  Minerva,  "Queen  of  Athens;"  that  they 
who  were  of  age  to  bear  arms  should  em- 
bark, and  that  each  should  see  to  sending 
away  his  children,  women,  and  slaves 
where  he  could.  This  decree  being  con- 
firmed, most  of  the  Athenians  removed 
their  parents,  wives,  and  children  to 
Trcezen,  where  they  were  received  with 
eager  good-will  by  the  Troezenians,  who 
passed  a  vote  that  they  should  be  main- 
tained at  the  public  charge,  by  a  daily 
payment  of  two  obols  to  every  one,  and 


leave  be  given  to  the  children  to  gather 
fruit  where  they  pleased,  and  school- 
masters paid  to  instruct  them.  This 
vote  was  proposed  by  Nicagoras. 

There  was  no  public  treasure  at  that 
time  in  Athens;  but  the  council  of  Areo- 
pagus, as  Aristotle  says,  distributed  to 
every  one  that  served  eight  drachmas, 
which  was  a  great  help  to  the  manning  of 
the  fleet;  but  Clidemus  ascribes  this  also 
to  the  art  of  Themistocles.  When  the 
Athenians  were  on  their  way  down  to  the 
haven  of  Piraeus,  the  shield  with  the  head 
of  Medusa  was  missing;  and  he,  under  the 
pretext  of  searching  for  it,  ransacked  all 
places,  and  found  among  their  goods  con- 
siderable sums  of  money  concealed,  which 
he  applied  to  the  public  use;  and  with  this 
the  soldiers  and  seamen  were  well  provided 
for  their  voyage. 

When  the  whole  city  of  Athens  were 
going  on  board,  it  afforded  a  spectacle 
worthy  alike  of  pity  and  admiration,  to 
see  them  thus  send  away  their  fathers  and 
children  before  them,  and,  unmoved  with 
their  cries  and  tears,  pass  over  into  the 
island.  But  that  which  stirred  compassion 
most  of  all  was,  that  many  old  men,  by 
reason  of  their  great  age,  were  left  behind; 
and  even  the  tame  domestic  animals  could 
not  be  seen  without  some  pity,  running 
about  the  town  and  howling,  as  desirous 
to  be  carried  along  with  their  masters  that 
hi  d  kept  them;  among  which  it  is  reported 
that  Xanthippus,  the  father  of  Pericles, 
had  a  dog  that  would  not  endure  to  stay 
behind,  but  leaped  into  the  sea,  and  swam 
along  by  the  galley's  side  till  he  came  to 
the  island  of  Salamis,  where  he  fainted 
away  and  died,  and  that  spot  in  the  island, 
which  is  still  called  the  Dog's  Grave,  is 
said  to  be  his. 

Among  the  great  actions  of  Themis- 
tocles at  this  crisis,  the  recall  of  Aris- 
tides  was  not  the  least,  for,  before  the  war, 
he  had  been  ostracised  by  the  party  which 
Themistocles  headed,  and  was  in  banish- 
ment; but  now,  perceiving  that  the  people 
regretted  his  absence,  and  were  fearful 
that  he  might  go  over  to  the  Persians  to 
revenge  himself,  and  thereby  ruin  the 
affairs  of  Greece,  Themistocles  proposed 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


a  decree  that  those  who  were  banished  for 
a  time  might  return  again,  to  give  assist- 
ance by  word  and  deed  to  the  cause  of 
Greece  with  the  rest  of  their  fellow-citizens. 
Eurybiades,  by  reason  of  the  greatness 
of  Sparta,  was  admiral  of  the  Greek  fleet, 
but  yet  was  faint-hearted  in  time  of  dan- 
ger, and  willing  to  weigh  anchor  and  set 
sail  for  the  isthmus  of  Corinth,  near  which 
the  land  army  lay  encamped;  which 
Themistocles  resisted;  and  this  was  the 
occasion  of  the  well-known  words,  when 
Eurybiades,  to  check  his  impatience,  told 
him  that  at  the  Olympic  games  they  that 
start  up  before  the  rest  are  lashed;  "And 
they,"  replied  Themistocles,  "that  are 
left  behind  are  not  crowned."  Again, 
Eurybiades  lifting  up  his  staff  as  if  he 
were  going  to  strike,  Themistocles  said, 
"Strike  if  you  will,  but  hear;"  Eurybiades, 
wondering  much  at  his  moderation,  de- 
sired him  to  speak,  and  Themistocles 
now  brought  him  to  a  better  understand- 
ing. And  when  one  who  stood  by  him 
told  Him  that  it  did  not  become  those  who 
had  neither  city  nor  house  to  lose,  to  per- 
suade others  to  relinquish  their  habita- 
tions and  forsake  their  countries,  The- 
mistocles gave  this  reply:  "We  have  indeed 
left  our  houses  and  our  walls,  base  fellow, 
not  thinking  it  fit  to  become  slaves  for  the 
sake  of  things  that  have  no  life  nor  soul; 
and  yet  our  city  is  the  greatest  of  all 
Greece,  consisting  of  two  hundred  galleys, 
which  are  here  to  defend  you,  if  you  please; 
but  if  you  run  away  and  betray  us,  as  you 
did  once  before,  the  Greeks  shall  soon  hear 
news  of  the  Athenians  possessing  as  fair  a 
country,  and  as  large  and  free  a  city,  as 
that  they  have  lost."  These  expressions 
of  Themistocles  made  Eurybiades  suspect 
that  if  he  retreated  the  Athenians  would 
fall  off  from  him.  When  one  of  Eretria 
began  to  oppose  him,  he  said,  "Have  you 
anything  to  say  of  war,  that  are  like  an 
ink-fish?  you  have  a  sword,  but  no  heart." 
Some  say  that  while  Themistocles  was 
thus  speaking  upon  the  deck,  an  owl  was 
seen  flying  to  the  right  hand  of  the  fleet, 
which  came  and  sate  upon  the  top  of  the 
mast;  and  this  happy  omen  so  far  dis- 
posed the  Greeks  to  follow  his  advice, 


that  they  presently  prepared  to  fight. 
Yet,  when  the  enemy's  fleet  was  arrived 
at  the  haven  of  Phalerum,  upon  the  coast 
of  Attica,  and  with  the  number  of  their 
ships  concealed  all  the  shore,  and  when 
they  saw  the  king  himself  in  person  come 
down  with  his  land  army  to  the  seaside, 
with  all  his  forces  united,  then  the  good 
counsel  of  Themistocles  was  soon  for- 
gotten, and  the  Peloponnesians  cast  their 
eyes  again  towards  the  isthmus,  and  took 
it  very  ill  if  any  one  spoke  against  their 
returning  home;  and,  resolving  to  depart 
that  night,  the  pilots  had  orders  what 
course  to  steer. 

Themistocles,  in  great  distress  that  the 
Greeks  should  retire,  and  lose  the  advan- 
tage of  the  narrow  seas  and  strait  passage, 
and  slip  home  every  one  to  his  own  city, 
considered  with  himself,  and  contrived 
that  stratagem  that  was  carried  out  by 
Sicinnus.  This  Sicinnus  was  a  Persian 
captive,  but  a  great  lover  of  Themis- 
tocles, and  the  attendant  of  his  children. 
Upon  this  occasion,  he  sent  him  privately 
to  Xerxes,  commanding  him  to  tell  the 
king  that  Themistocles,  the  admiral  of  the 
Athenians,  having  espoused  his  interest, 
wished  to  be  the  first  to  inform  him  that 
the  Greeks  were  ready  to  make  their 
escape,  and  that  he  counselled  him  to 
hinder  their  flight,  to  set  upon  them  while 
they  were  in  this  confusion  and  at  a  dis- 
tance from  their  land  army,  and  hereby 
destroy  all  their  forces  by  sea.  Xerxes 
was  very  joyful  at  this  message,  and  re- 
ceived it  as  from  one  who  wished  him  all 
that  was  good,  and  immediately  issued 
instructions  to  the  commanders  of  his 
ships,  that  they  should  instantly  set  out 
with  two  hundred  galleys  to  encompass 
all  the  islands,  and  enclose  all  the  straits 
and  passages,  that  none  of  the  Greeks 
might  escape,  and  that  they  should  after- 
wards follow  with  the  rest  of  their  fleet 
at  leisure.  This  being  done,  Aristides, 
the  son  of  Lysimachus,  was  the  first  man 
that  perceived  it,  and  went  to  the  tent  of 
Themistocles,  not  out  of  any  friendship, 
for  he  had  been  formerly  banished  by  his 
means,  as  has  been  related,  but  to  inform 
him  how  they  were  encompassed  by  their 


BIOGRAPHY 


317 


enemies.  Themistocles,  knowing  the  gene- 
rosity of  Artistides,  and  much  struck  by 
his  visit  at  that  time,  imparted  to  him  all 
that  he  had  transacted  by  Sicinnus,  and 
entreated  him  that,  as  he  would  be  more 
readily  believed  among  the  Greeks,  he 
would  make  use  of  his  credit  to  help  to 
induce  them  to  stay  and  fight  their  enemies 
in  the  narrow  seas.  Aristides  applauded 
Themistocles,  and  went  to  the  other  com- 
manders and  captains  of  the  galleys,  and 
encouraged  them  to  engage;  yet  they  did 
not  perfectly  assent  to  him,  till  a  galley 
of  Tenos,  which  deserted  from  the  Persians, 
of  which  Panaetius  was  commander,  came 
in,  while  they  were  still  doubting,  and  con- 
firmed the  news  that  all  the  straits  and 
passages  were  beset;  and  then  their  rage 
and  fury,  as  well  as  their  necessity,  pro- 
voked them  all  to  fight. 

As  soon  as  it  was  day,  Xerxes  placed 
himself  high  up,  to  view  his  fleet,  and  how 
it  was  set  in  order.  Phanodemus  says,  he 
sat  upon  a  promontory  above  the  temple 
of  Hercules,  where  the  coast  of  Attica  is 
separated  from  the  island  by  a  narrow 
channel;  but  Acestodorus  writes,  that  it 
was  in  the  confines  of  Megara,  upon  those 
hills  which  are  called  the  Horns,  where  he 
sat  in  a  chair  of  gold,  with  many  secre- 
taries about  him  to  write  down  all  that 
was  done  in  the  fight. 

When  Themistocles  was  about  to  sacri- 
fice, close  to  the  admiral's  galley,  there 
were  three  prisoners  brought  to  him,  fine 
looking  men,  and  richly  dressed  in  orna- 
mented clothing  and  gold,  said  to  be  the 
children  of  Artayctes  and  Sandauce,  sister 
to  Xerxes.  As  soon  as  the  prophet  Eu- 
phrantides  saw  them,  and  observed  that  at 
the  same  time  the  fire  blazed  out  from  the 
offerings  with  a  more  than  ordinary  flame, 
and  a  man  sneezed  on  the  right,  which 
was  an  intimation  of  a  fortunate  event, 
he  took  Themistocles  by  the  hand,  and 
bade  him  consecrate  the  three  young  men 
for  sacrifice,  and  offer  them  up  with 
prayers  for  victory  to  Bacchus  the  Devour- 
er;  so  should  the  Greeks  not  only  save 
themselves,  but  also  obtain  victory.  The- 
mistocles was  much  disturbed  at  this 
strange  and  terrible  prophecy,  but  the 


common  people,  who  in  any  difficult 
crisis  and  great  exigency  ever  look  for 
relief  rather  to  strange  and  extravagant 
than  to  reasonable  means,  calling  upon 
Bacchus  with  one  voice,  led  the  captives 
to  the  altar,  and  compelled  the  execution 
of  the  sacrifice  as  the  prophet  had  com- 
manded. This  is  reported  by  Phanias 
the  Lesbian,  a  philosopher  well  read  in 
history. 

The  number  of  the  enemy's  ships  the 
poet  ^schylus  gives  in  his  tragedy  called 
the  Persians,  as  on  his  certain  knowledge, 
in  the  following  words : — 

"Xerxes,  I  know,  did  into  battle  lead 
One  thousand  ships;  of  more  than  usual  speed 
Seven  and  two  hundred.     So  it  is  agreed." 

The  Athenians  had  a  hundred  and  eighty; 
in  every  ship  eighteen  men  fought  upon 
the  deck,  four  of  whom  were  archers  and 
the  rest  men  at  arms. 

As  Themistocles  had  fixed  upon  the 
most  advantageous  place,  so,  with  no  less 
sagacity,  he  chose  the  best  time  of  fight- 
ing; for  he  would  not  run  the  prows 
of  his  galleys  against  the  Persians,  nor 
begin  the  fight  till  the  time  of  day  was 
come,  when  there  regularly  blows  in  a 
fresh  breeze  from  the  open  sea,  and  brings 
in  with  it  a  strong  swell  into  the  channel; 
which  was  no  inconvenience  to  the  Greek 
ships,  which  were  low-built,  and  little 
above  the  water,  but  did  much  to  hurt 
the  Persians,  which  had  high  sterns  and 
lofty  decks,  and  were  heavy  and  cumbrous 
in  their  movements,  as  it  presented  them 
broadside  to  the  quick  charges  of  the 
Greeks,  who  kept  their  eyes  upon  the 
motions  of  Themistocles,  as  their  best 
example,  and  more  particularly  because, 
opposed  to  his  ship,  Ariamenes,  admiral 
to  Xerxes,  a  brave  man  and  by  far  the 
best  and  worthiest  of  the  king's  brothers, 
was  seen  throwing  darts  and  shooting 
arrows  from  his  huge  galley,  as  from  the 
walls  of  a  castle.  Aminias  the  Decelean 
and  Sosicles  the  Pedian,  who  sailed  in  the 
same  vessel,  upon  the  ships  meeting  stem 
to  stem,  and  transfixing  each  the  other 
with  their  brazen  prows,  so  that  they  were 
fastened  together,  when  Ariamenes  at- 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


tempted  to  board  theirs,  ran  at  him  with 
their  pikes,  and  thrust  him  into  the  sea; 
his  body,  as  it  floated  amongst  other 
shipwrecks,  was  known  to  Artemisia,  and 
carried  to  Xerxes. 

It  is  reported  that,  in  the  middle  of  the 
fight,  a  great  flame  rose  into  the  air  above 
the  city  of  Eleusis,  and  that  sounds  and 
voices  were  heard  through  all  the  Thria- 
sian  plain,  as  far  as  the  sea,  sounding  like  a 
number  of  men  accompanying  and  escort- 
ing the  mystic  lacchus,  and  that  a  mist 
seemed  to  form  and  rise  from  the  place 
from  whence  the  sounds  came,  and,  pass- 
ing forward,  fell  upon  the  galleys. 
Others  believed  that  they  saw  apparitions, 
in  the  shape  of  armed  men,  reaching  out 
their  hands  from  the  island  of  ^Egina 
before  the  Grecian  galleys;  and  supposed 
they  were  the  ^Eacidae,  whom  they  had 
invoked  to  their  aid  before  the  battle. 
The  first  man  that  took  a  ship  was  Ly- 
comedes  the  Athenian,  cap  tain  of  the  galley, 
who  cut  down  its  ensign,  and  dedicated 
it  to  Apollo  the  Laurel-crowned.  And 
as  the  Persians  fought  in  a  narrow  arm 
of  the  sea,  and  could  bring  but  part  of 
their  fleet  to  fight,  and  fell  foul  of  one 
another,  the  Greeks  thus  equaled  them 
in  strength,  and  fought  with  them  till  the 
evening  forced  them  back,  and  obtained, 
as  says  Simonides,  that  noble  and  famous 
victory,  than  which  neither  amongst  the 
Greeks  nor  barbarians  was  ever  known 
more  glorious  exploit  on  the  seas;  by  the 
joint  valor,  indeed,  and  zeal  of  all  who 
fought,  but  by  the  wisdom  and  sagacity 
of  Themistocles. 

After  this  sea-fight,  Xerxes,  enraged  at 
his  ill-fortune,  attempted,  by  casting 
great  heaps  of  earth  and  stones  into  the 
sea,  to  stop  up  the  channel  and  to  make 
a  dam,  upon  which  he  might  lead  his  land- 
forces  over  into  the  island  of  Salamis. 

Themistocles,  being  desirous  to  try 
the  opinion  of  Aristides,  told  him  that  he 
proposed  to  set  sail  for  the  Hellespont, 
to  break  the  bridge  of  ships,  so  as  to  shut 
up,  he  said,  Asia  a  prisoner  within  Europe; 
but  Aristides,  disliking  the  design,  said: 
"We  have  hitherto  fought  with  an  enemy 
who  has  regarded  little  else  but  his  pleas- 


ure and  luxury;  but  if  we  shut  him  up 
within  Greece,  and  drive  him  to  necessity, 
he  that  is  master  of  such  great  forces  will 
no  longer  sit  quietly  with  an  umbrella  of 
gold  over  his  head,  looking  upon  the  fight 
for  his  pleasure;  but  in  such  a  strait  will 
attempt  all  things;  he  will  be  resolute 
and  appear  himself  in  person  upon  all 
occasions,  he  will  soon  correct  his  errors, 
and  supply  what  he  has  formerly  omitted 
through  remissness,  and  will  be  better 
advised  in  all  things.  Therefore,  it  is 
noways  our  interest,  Themistocles,"  he 
said,  "to  take  away  the  bridge  that  is 
already  made,  but  rather  to  build  another, 
if  it  were  possible,  that  he  might  make  his 
retreat  with  the  more  expedition."  To 
which  Themistocles  answered:  "If  this 
be  requisite,  we  must  immediately  use  all 
diligence,  art,  and  industry,  to  rid  our- 
selves of  him  as  soon  as  may  be;"  and  to 
this  purpose  he  found  out  among  the  cap- 
tives one  of  the  King  of  Persia's  eunuchs, 
named  Arnaces,  whom  he  sent  to  the  king, 
to  inform  him  that  the  Greeks,  being  now 
victorious  by  sea,  had  decreed  to  sail  to 
the  Hellespont,  where  the  boats  were 
fastened  together,  and  destroy  the  bridge; 
but  that  Themistocles,  being  concerned 
for  the  king,  revealed  this  to  him,  that  he 
might  hasten  towards  the  Asiatic  seas, 
and  pass  over  into  his  own  dominions; 
and  in  the  meantime  would  cause  delays 
and  hinder  the  confederates  from  pursuing 
him.  Xerxes  no  sooner  heard  this,  but, 
being  very  much  terrified,  he  proceeded 
to  retreat  out  of  Greece  with  all  speed. 
The  prudence  of  Themistocles  and  Aris- 
tides in  this  was  afterwards  more  fully 
understood  at  the  battle  of  Plataea,  where 
Mardonius,  with  a  very  small  fraction 
of  the  forces  of  Xerxes,  put  the  Greeks  in 
danger  of  losing  all. 

Herodotus  writes,  that  of  all  the  cities  01 
Greece,  ^Egina  was  held  to  have  performed 
the  best  service  in  the  war ;  while  all  single 
men  yielded  to  Themistocles,  though,  out 
of  envy,  unwillingly;  and  when  they  re- 
turned to  the  entrance  of  Peloponnesus, 
where  the  several  commanders  delivered 
their  suffrages  at  the  altar,  to  determine 
who  was  most  worthy,  every  one  gave  the 


BIOGRAPHY 


first  vote  for  himself  and  the  second  for 
Themistocles.  The  Lacedaemonians  car- 
ried him  with  them  to  Sparta,  where,  giv- 
ing the  rewards  of  valor  to  Eurybiades, 
and  of  wisdom  and  conduct  to  Themis- 
tocles, they  crowned  him  with  olive,  pre- 
sented him  with  the  best  chariot  in  the 
city,  and  sent  three  hundred  young  men  to 
accompany  him  to  the  confines  of  their 
country.  And  at  the  next  Olympic  games, 
when  Themistocles  entered  the  course, 
the  spectators  took  no  farther  notice  of 
those  who  were  contesting  the  prizes, 
but  spent  the  whole  day  in  looking  upon 
him,  showing  him  to  the  strangers,  ad- 
miring him,  and  applauding  him  by  clap- 
ping their  hands,  and  other  expressions  of 
joy,  so  that  he  himself,  much  gratified, 
confessed  to  his  friends  that  he  then  reaped 
the  fruit  of  all  his  labors  for  the  Greeks. 

He  was,  indeed,  by  nature,  a  great  lover 
of  honor,  as  is  evident  from  the  anecdotes 
recorded  of  him.  When  chosen  admiral 
by  the  Athenians,  he  would  not  quite  con- 
clude any  single  matter  of  business, 
either  public  or  private,  but  deferred  all 
till  the  day  they  were  to  set  sail,  that,  by 
despatching  a  great  quantity  of  business 
all  at  once,  and  having  to  meet  a  great 
variety  of  people,  he  might  make  an  ap- 
pearance of  greatness  and  power.  View- 
ing the  dead  bodies  cast  up  by  the  sea, 
he  perceived  brace1  ets  and  necklaces  of 
gold  about  them,  yet  passed  on,  only 
showing  them  to  a  friend  that  followed  him, 
saying,  "Take  you  these  things,  for  you 
are  not  Themistocles."  He  said  to  Anti- 
phates,  a  handsome  young  man,  who  had 
formerly  avoided,  but  now  in  his  glory 
courted  him,  "Time,  young  man,  has 
taught  us  both  a  lesson."  He  said  that 
the  Athenians  did  not  honor  him  or  admire 
him,  but  made,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  plane- 
tree  of  him;  sheltered  themselves  under 
him  in  bad  weather,  and  as  soon  as  it 
was  fine,  plucked  his  leaves  and  cut  his 
branches.  When  the  Seriphian  told  him 
that  he  had  not  obtained  this  honor  by 
himself,  but  by  the  greatness  of  the  city, 
he  replied,  "You  speak  truth;  I  should 
never  have  been  famous  if  I  had  been  of 
Seriphus;  nor  you,  had  you  been  of 


Athens."  When  another  of  the  generals, 
who  thought  he  had  performed  consider- 
able service  for  the  Athenians,  boastingly 
compared  his  actions  with  those  of  The- 
mistocles, he  told  him  that  once  upon  a 
time  the  Day  after  the  Festival  found  fault 
with  the  Festival:  "On  you  there  is 
nothing  but  hurry  and  trouble  and  prep- 
aration, but,  when  I  come,  everybody 
sits  down  quietly  and  enjoys  himself;" 
which  the  Festival  admitted  was  true,  but 
"if  I  had  not  come  first,  you  would  not 
have  come  at  all."  "Even  so,"  he  said, 
"if  Themistocles  had  not  come  before, 
where  had  you  been  now?"  Laughing 
at  his  own  son,  who  got  his  mother,  and, 
by  his  mother's  means,  his  father  also, 
to  indulge  him,  he  told  him  that  he  had 
the  most  power  of  any  one  in  Greece: 
"  For  the  Athenians  command  the  rest  of 
Greece,  I  command  the  Athenians,  your 
mother  commands  me,  and  you  command 
your  mother."  Loving  to  be  singular  in 
all  things,  when  he  had  land  to  sell,  he 
ordered  the  crier  to  give  notice  that  there 
were  good  neighbors  near  it.  Of  two 
who  made  love  to  his  daughter,  he  pre- 
ferred the  man  of  worth  to  the  one  who 
was  rich,  saying  he  desired  a  man  without 
riches,  rather  than  riches  without  a  man. 
Such  was  the  character  of  his  sayings. 

After  these  things,  he  began  to  rebuild 
and  fortify  the  city  of  Athens,  bribing, 
as  Theopompus  reports,  the  Lacedae- 
monian ephors  not  to  be  against  it,  but, 
as  most  relate  it,  overreaching  and  deceiv- 
ing them.  For,  under  the  pretext  of  an 
embassy,  he  went  to  Sparta,  whereupon 
the  Lacedaemonians  charging  him  with 
rebuilding  the  walls,  and  Poliarchus  com- 
ing on  purpose  from  ;£gina  to  denounce 
it,  he  denied  the  fact,  bidding  them  to 
send  people  to  Athens  to  see  whether  it 
were  so  or  no;  by  which  delay  he  got  time 
for  the  building  of  the  wall,  and  also 
placed  these  ambassadors  in  the  hands  of 
his  countrymen  as  hostages  for  him;  and 
so,  when  the  Lacedaemonians  knew  the 
truth,  they  did  him  no  hurt,  but,  suppress- 
ing all  display  of  their  anger  for  the  present, 
sent  him  away. 

Next  he  proceeded  to  establish  the  bar- 


320 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


bor  of  Piraeus,  observing  the  great  nat- 
ural advantages  of  the  locality,  and  desir- 
ous to  unite  the  whole  city  with  the  sea, 
and  to  reverse,  in  a  manner,  the  policy 
of  ancient  Athenian  kings,  who,  endeavor- 
ing to  withdraw  their  subjects  from  the 
sea,  and  to  accustom  them  to  live,  not  by 
sailing  about,  but  by  planting  and  tilling 
the  earth,  spread  the  story  of  the  dispute 
between  Minerva  and  Neptune  for  the 
sovereignty  of  Athens,  in  which  Minerva, 
by  producing  to  the  judges  an  olive-tree, 
was  declared  to  have  won;  whereas  The- 
mistocles  did  not  only  knead  up,  as  Aris- 
tophanes says,  the  port  and  the  city  into 
one,  but  made  the  city  absolutely  the 
dependant  and  the  adjunct  of  the  port, 
and  the  land  of  the  sea,  which  increased 
the  power  and  confidence  of  the  people 
against  the  nobility;  the  authority  coming 
into  the  hands  of  sailors  and  boatswains 
and  pilots.  Thus  it  was  one  of  the  orders 
of  the  thirty  tyrants,  that  the  hustings 
in  the  assembly,  which  had  faced  towards 
the  sea,  should  be  turned  round  towards 
the  land;  implying  their  opinion  that  the 
empire  by  sea  had  been  the  origin  of  the 
democracy,  and  that  the  farming  popula- 
tion were  not  so  much  opposed  to  oligarchy. 
Themistocles,  however,  formed  yet 
higher  designs  with  a  view  to  naval  su- 
premacy. For,  after  the  departure  of 
Xerxes,  when  the  Grecian  fleet  was  ar- 
rived at  Pagasae,  where  they  wintered, 
Themistocles,  in  a  public  oration  to  the 
people  of  Athens,  told  them  that  he  had  a 
design  to  perform  something  that  would 
tend  greatly  to  their  interests  and  safety, 
but  was  of  such  a  nature  that  it  could  not 
be  made  generally  public.  The  Athen- 
ians ordered  him  to  impart  it  to  Aris- 
tides  only;  and,  if  he  approved  of  it,  to 
put  it  in  practice.  And  when  Themis- 
tocles had  discovered  to  him  that  his 
design  was  to  burn  the  Grecian  fleet  in 
the  haven  of  Pagasas,  Artistides  coming 
out  to  the  people,  gave  this  report  of  the 
stratagem  contrived  by  Themistocles, 
that  no  proposal  could  be  more  politic, 
or  more  dishonorable;  on  which  the 
Athenians  commanded  Themistocles  to 
think  no  farther  of  it 


When  the  Lacedaemonians  proposed, 
at  the  general  council  of  the  Amphicty- 
onians,  that  the  representative  of  those 
cities  which  were  not  in  the  league,  nor 
had  fought  against  the  Persians,  should  be 
excluded,  Themistocles,  fearing  that  the 
Thessalians,  with  those  of  Thebes,  Argos, 
and  others,  being  thrown  out  of  the  coun- 
cil, the  Lacedaemonians  would  become 
wholly  masters  of  the  votes,  and  do  what 
they  pleased,  supported  the  deputies  of 
the  cities,  and  prevailed  with  the  members 
then  sitting  to  alter  their  opinion  on  this 
point,  showing  them  that  there  were  but 
one-and-thirty  cities  which  had  partaken  in 
the  war,  and  that  most  of  these,  also,  were 
very  small;  how  intolerable  would  it  be, 
if  the  rest  of  Greece  should  be  excluded, 
and  the  general  council  should  come  to  be 
ruled  by  two  or  three  great  cities.  By 
this,  chiefly,  he  incurred  the  displeasure 
of  the  Lacedaemonians,  whose  honors  and 
favors  were  now  shown  to  Cimon,  with 
a  view  to  making  him  the  opponent  of  the 
State  policy  of  Themistocles. 

He  was  also  burdensome  to  the  confed- 
erates, sailing  about  the  islands  and  col 
lecting  money  from  them.  Herodotus  says,, 
that,  requiring  money  of  those  of  the  is- 
land of  Andros,  he  told  them  that  he 
had  brought  with  him  two  goddesses, 
Persuasion  and  Force;  and  they  answered 
him  that  they  had  also  two  great  god- 
desses, which  prohibited  them  from  giving 
him  any  money,  Poverty  and  Impos- 
sibility. Timocreon,  the  Rhodian  poet, 
reprehends  him  somewhat  bitterly  for 
being  wrought  upon  by  money  to  let 
some  who  were  banished  return,  while 
abandoning  himself,  who  was  his  guest 
and  friend.  The  verses  are  these: — 

"Pausanias  you  may  praise,  and  Xanthippus,  he 

be  for, 

For  Leutychidas,  a  third;  Aristides,  I  proclaim, 
From  the  sacred  Athens  came, 
The  one  true  man  of  all;  for  Themistocles  Latona 

doth  abhor, 

The  liar,  traitor,  cheat,  who  to  gain  his  filthy  pay, 
Timocreon,  his  friend,  neglected  to  restore 
To  his  native  Rhodian  shore; 
Three  silver  talents  took,  and  departed  (curses 

with  him)  on  his  way, 
Restoring  people  here,  expelling  there,  and  killing 

here. 


BIOGRAPHY 


321 


Filling  evermore  his  purse:  and  at  the  Isthmus 

gave  a  treat, 

To  be  laughed  at,  of  cold  meat, 
Which  they  ate,  and  prayed  the  gods  some  one 

else  might  give  the  feast  another  year." 

But  after  the  sentence  and  banishment 

of  Themistocles,   Timocreon  reviles  him 

yet  more  immoderately  and  wildly  in  a 
poem  that  begins  thus: — 

"Unto  all  the  Greeks  repair, 
O  Muse,  and  tell  these  verses  there, 
As  is  fitting  and  is  fair." 

The  story  is,  that  it  was  put  to  the  question 
whether  Timocreon  should  be  banished 
for  siding  with  the  Persians,  and  Themis- 
tocles gave  his  vote  against  him.  So 
when  Themistocles  was  accused  of  in- 
triguing with  the  Medes,  Timocreon  made 
these  lines  upon  him: — 

"  So  now  Timocreon,  indeed,  is  not  the  sole  friend 

of  the  Mede, 
There  are  some  knaves  besides;  nor  is  it  only 

mine  that  fails, 
But  other  foxes  have  lost  tails. —  " 

When  the  citizens  of  Athens  began  to 
listen  willingly  to  those  who  traduced  and 
reproached  him,  he  was  forced,  with  some- 
what obnoxious  frequency,  to  put  them  in 
mind  of  the  great  services  he  had  per- 
formed, and  ask  those  who  were  offended 
with  him  whether  they  were  weary  with 
receiving  benefits  often  from  the  same  per- 
sons, so  rendering  himself  more  odious. 
And  he  yet  more  provoked  the  people  by 
building  a  temple  to  Diana  with  the  epi- 
thet of  Aristobule,  or  Diana  of  Best  Coun- 
sel; intimating  thereby,  that  he  had  given 
the  best  counsel,  not  only  to  the  Athen- 
ians, but  to  all  Greece.  He  built  this 
temple  near  his  own  house,  in  the  dis- 
trict called  Melite,  where  now  the  public 
officers  carry  out  the  bodies  of  such  as  are 
executed,  and  throw  the  halters  and 
clothes  of  those  that  are  strangled  or 
otherwise  put  to  death.  There  is  to  this 
day  a  small  figure  of  Themistocles  in  the 
temple  of  Diana  of  Best  Counsel,  which 
represents  him  to  be  a  person  not  only  of  a 
noble  mind,  but  also  of  a  most  heroic 
aspect.  At  length  the  Athenians  ban- 


ished him,  making  use  of  the  ostracism  to 
humble  his  eminence  and  authority,  as 
they  ordinarily  did  with  all  whom  they 
thought  too  powerful,  or,  by  their  great- 
ness, disproportionable  to  the  equality 
thought  requisite  in  a  popular  govern- 
ment. For  the  ostracism  was  instituted, 
not  so  much  to  punish  the  offender,  as  to 
mitigate  and  pacify  the  violence  of  the 
envious,  who  delighted  to  humble  emi- 
nent men,  and  who,  by  fixing  this  dis- 
grace upon  them,  might  vent  some  part 
of  their  rancor. 

Themistocles  being  banished  from  Ath- 
ens, while  he  stayed  at  Argos  the  detection 
of  Pausanias  happened,  which  gave  such 
advantage  to  his  enemies,  that  Leobotes 
of  Agraule,  son  of  Alcmaeon,  indicted  him 
of  treason,  the  Spartans  supporting  him 
in  the  accusation. 

When  Pausanias  went  about  this  trea- 
sonable design,  he  concealed  it  at  first 
from  Themistocles,  though  he  were  his 
intimate  friend;  but  when  he  saw  him 
expelled  out  of  the  commonwealth,  and 
how  impatiently  he  took  his  banishment, 
he  ventured  to  communicate  it  to  him, 
and  desired  his  assistance,  showing  him 
the  King  of  Persia's  letters,  and  exasperat- 
ing him  against  the  Greeks,  as  a  villain- 
ous, ungrateful  people.  However,  The- 
mistocles immediately  rejected  the  pro- 
posals of  Pausanias,  and  wholly  refused  to 
be  a  party  in  the  enterprise,  though  he 
never  revealed  his  communications,  nor  dis- 
closed the  conspiracy  to  any  man,  either 
hoping  that  Pausanias  would  desist  from 
his  intentions,  or  expecting  that  so  incon- 
siderate an  attempt  after  such  chimerical 
objects  would  be  discovered  by  other 
means. 

After  that  Pausanias  was  put  to  death, 
letters  and  writings  being  found  concern- 
ing this  matter,  which  rendered  Themis- 
tocles suspected,  the  Lacedaemonians  were 
clamorous  against  him,  and  his  enemies 
among  the  Athenians  accused  him;  when, 
being  absent  from  Athens,  he  made  his 
defence  by  letters,  especially  against  the 
points  that  had  been  previously  alleged 
against  him.  In  answer  to  the  malicious 
detractions  of  his  enemies,  he  merely 


322 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


wrote  to  the  citizens,  urging  that  he  who 
was  always  ambitious  to  govern,  and  not 
of  a  character  or  a  disposition  to  serve, 
would  never  sell  himself  and  his  country 
into  slavery  to  a  barbarous  and  hostile 
nation. 

Notwithstanding  this,  the  people,  being 
persuaded  by  his  accusers,  sent  officers  to 
take  him  and  bring  him  away  to  be  tried 
before  a  council  of  the  Greeks,  but,  hav- 
ing timely  notice  of  it,  he  passed  over  into 
the  island  of  Corcyra,  where  the  state 
was  under  obligations  to  him;  for,  being 
chosen  as  arbitrator  in  a  difference  be- 
tween them  and  the  Corinthians,  he  de- 
cided the  controversy  by  ordering  the 
Corinthians  to  pay  down  twenty  talents, 
and  declaring  the  town  and  island  of 
Leucas  a  joint  colony  from  both  cities. 
From  thence  he  fled  into  Epirus,  and  the 
Athenians  and  Lacedaemonians  still  pur- 
suing him,  he  threw  himself  upon  chances 
of  safety  that  seemed  all  but  desperate. 
For  he  fled  for  refuge  to  Admetus,  king 
of  the  Molossians,  who  had  formerly 
made  some  request  to  the  Athenians,  when 
Themistocles  was  in  the  height  of  his 
authority,  and  had  been  disdainfully 
used  and  insulted  by  him,  and  had  let  it 
appear  plain  enough,  that,  could  he  lay 
hold  of  him,  he  would  take  his  revenge. 
Yet  in  this  misfortune,  Themistocles, 
fearing  the  recent  hatred  of  his  neighbors 
and  fellow-citizens  more  than  the  old  dis- 
pleasure of  the  king,  put  himself  at  his 
mercy  and  became  an  humble  suppliant 
to  Admetus,  after  a  peculiar  manner  dif- 
ferent from  the  custom  of  other  countries. 
For  taking  the  king's  son,  who  was  then  a 
child,  in  his  arms,  he  laid  himself  down  at 
his  hearth,  this  being  the  most  sacred 
and  only  manner  of  supplication  among 
the  Molossians,  which  was  not  to  be  re- 
fused. And  some  say  that  his  wife,  Phthia, 
intimated  to  Themistocles  this  way  of 
petitioning,  and  placed  her  young  son 
with  him  before  the  hearth;  others,  that 
King  Admetus,  that  he  might  be  under  a 
religious  obligation  not  to  deliver  him  up  to 
his  pursuers,  prepared  and  enacted  with 


him  a  sort  of  stage-play  to  this  effect. 
At  this  tune  Epicrates  of  Acharnae  pri- 
vately conveyed  his  wife  and  children  out 
of  Athens,  and  sent  them  hither,  for  which 
afterwards  Cimon  condemned  him  and 
put  him  to  death;  as  Stesimbrotus  re- 
ports, and  yet  somehow,  either  forgetting 
this  himself,  or  making  Themistocles  to 
be  little  mindful  of  it,  says  presently  that 
he  sailed  into  Sicily,  and  desired  hi  mar- 
riage the  daughter  of  Hiero,  tyrant  of 
Syracuse,  promising  to  bring  the  Greeks 
under  his  power;  and,  on  Hiero  refusing 
him,  departed  thence  into  Asia;  but  this  is 
not  probable. 

For  Theophrastus  writes,  in  his  work 
on  Monarchy,  that  when  Hiero  sent  race- 
horses to  the  Olympian  games,  and 
erected  a  pavilion  sumptuously  furnished, 
Themistocles  made  an  oration  to  the 
Greeks,  inciting  them  to  pull  down  the 
tyrant's  tent,  and  not  to  suffer  his  horse? 
to  run.  Thucydides  says,  that,  passing 
overland  to  the  ^Egasan  Sea,  he  took  ship 
at  Pydna  in  the  bay  Therme,  not  being 
known  to  any  one  in  the  ship,  till,  being 
terrified  to  see  the  vessel  driven  by  the 
winds  near  to  Naxos,  which  was  then 
besieged  by  the  Athenians,  he  made  him- 
self known  to  the  master  and  pilot,  and 
partly  entreating  them,  partly  threatening 
that  if  they  went  on  shore  he  would  accuse 
them,  and  make  the  Athenians  to  believe 
that  they  did  not  take  him  in  out  of  igno- 
rance, but  that  he  had  corrupted  them  with 
money  from  the  beginning,  he  compelled 
them  to  bear  off  and  stand  out  to  sea,  and 
sail  forward  towards  the  coast  of  Asia. 

A  great  part  of  his  estate  was  privately 
conveyed  away  by  his  friends,  and  sent 
after  him  by  sea  into  Asia;  besides  which, 
there  was  discovered  and  confiscated  to 
the  value  of  fourscore  talents,  as  Theo- 
phrastus writes;  Theopompus  says  an 
hundred;  though  Themistocles  was  never 
worth  three  talents  before  he  was  con- 
cerned hi  public  affairs. 


[The  remainder  of  the  Life  recounts  his  sojourn 
at  the  Persian  court  until  his  death.] 


BIOGRAPHY 


323 


THOMAS  FULLER  (1608-1661) 


THE  HOLY  STATE 

BOOK  H,  CHAPTER  XXH 

THE  LIFE  OF  SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

FRANCIS  DRAKE  was  born  nigh  South 
Tavistock  in  Devonshire,  and  brought  up 
in  Kent;  God  dividing  the  honor  betwixt 
two  counties,  that  the  one  might  have  his 
birth,  and  the  other  his  education.  His 
father,  being  a  minister,  fled  into  Kent, 
for  fear  of  the  Six  Articles,  wherein  the 
sting  of  Popery  still  remained  in  England, 
though  the  teeth  thereof  were  knocked 
out,  and  the  Pope's  supremacy  abolished. 
Coming  into  Kent,  he  bound  his  son 
Francis  apprentice  to  the  master  of  a  small 
bark,  which  traded  into  France  and  Zea- 
land, where  he  underwent  a  hard  service; 
and  pains,  with  patience  in  his  youth,  did 
knit  the  joints  of  his  soul,  and  made  them 
more  solid  and  compacted.  His  master, 
dying  unmarried,  in  reward  of  his  industry, 
bequeathed  his  bark  unto  him  for  a  legacy. 

For  some  time  he  continued  his  mas- 
ter's profession;  but  the  narrow  seas  were 
a  prison  for  so  large  a  spirit,  born  for 
greater  undertakings.  He  soon  grew 
weary  of  his  bark;  which  would  scarce 
go  alone,  but  as  it  crept  along  by  the 
shore:  wherefore,  selling  it,  he  unfortu- 
nately ventured  most  of  his  estate  with 
Captain  John  Hawkins  into  the  West 
Indies,  in  1567;  whose  goods  were  taken 
by  the  Spaniards  at  St.  John  de  Ulva,  and 
he  himself  scarce  escaped  with  life:  the 
King  of  Spain  being  so  tender  in  those 
parts,  that  the  least  touch  doth  wound 
him;  and  so  jealous  of  the  West  Indies, 
his  wife,  that  willingly  he  would  have 
none  look  upon  her:  he  therefore  used 
them  with  the  greater  severity. 

Drake  was  persuaded  by  the  minister 
of  his  ship,  that  he  might  lawfully  recover 
in  value  of  the  King  of  Spain,  and  repair 
his  losses  upon  him  anywhere  else.  The 
case  was  clear  in  sea-divinity;  and  few  are 
such  infidels,  as  not  to  believe  doctrines 
which  make  for  their  own  profit.  Where- 


upon Drake,  though  a  poor  private  man, 
hereafter  undertook  to  revenge  himself 
on  so  mighty  a  monarch;  who,  as  not  con- 
tented that  the  sun  riseth  and  setteth  in 
his  dominions,  may  seem  to  desire  to 
make  all  his  own  where  he  shineth.  And 
now  let  us  see  how  a  dwarf,  standing  on 
the  mount  of  God's  providence,  may 
prove  an  overmatch  for  a  giant. 

After  two  or  three  several  voyages  to 
gain  intelligence  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
some  prizes  taken,  at  last  he  effectually 
set  forward  from  Plymouth  with  two  ships, 
the  one  of  seventy,  the  other  twenty-five 
tons,  and  seventy-three  men  and  boys  in 
both.  He  made  with  all  speed  and 
secrecy  to  Nombre  de  Dios,  as  loath  to 
put  the  town  to  too  much  charge  (which 
he  knew  they  would  willingly  bestow) 
in  providing  beforehand  for  his  entertain- 
ment; which  city  was  then  the  granary  of 
the  West  Indies,  wherein  the  golden 
harvest  brought  from  Panama  was  hoard- 
ed up  till  it  could  be  conveyed  into  Spain. 
They  came  hard  aboard  the  shore,  and 
lay  quiet  all  night,  intending  to  attempt 
the  town  in  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

But  he  was  forced  to  alter  his  resolution, 
and  assault  it  sooner;  for  he  heard  his 
men  muttering  amongst  themselves  of  the 
strength  and  greatness  of  the  town:  and 
when  men's  heads  are  once  fly-blown  with 
buzzes  of  suspicion,  the  vermin  multiply 
instantly,  and  one  jealousy  begets  another. 
Wherefore,  he  raised  them  from  their 
nest  before  they  had  hatched  their  fears; 
and,  to  put  away  those  conceits,  he  per- 
suaded them  it  was  day-dawning  when  the 
moon  rose,  and  instantly  set  on  the  town, 
and  won  it,  being  unwalled.  In  the 
market-place  the  Spaniards  saluted  them 
with  a  volley  of  shot;  Drake  returned 
their  greeting  with  a  flight  of  arrows,  the 
best  and  ancient  English  compliment, 
which  drave  their  enemies  away.  Here 
Drake  received  a  dangerous  wound, 
though  he  valiantly  concealed  it  a  long 
time;  knowing  if  his  heart  stooped,  his 
men's  would  fall,  and  loath  to  leave  off 


324 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


the  action,  wherein  if  so  bright  an  oppor- 
tunity once  setteth,  it  seldom  riseth  again. 
But  at  length  his  men  forced  him  to  return 
to  his  ship,  that  his  wound  might  be 
dressed;  and  this  unhappy  accident  de- 
feated the  whole  design.  Thus  victory 
sometimes  slips  through  their  fingers  who 
have  caught  it  in  their  hands. 

But  his  valor  would  not  let  him  give 
over  the  project  as  long  as  there  was 
either  life  or  warmth  in  it;  and  therefore, 
having  received  intelligence  from  the  ne- 
groes called  Symerons,  of  many  mules'- 
lading  of  gold  and  silver,  which  was  to 
be  brought  from  Panama,  he,  leaving 
competent  numbers  to  man  his  ship, 
went  on  land  with  the  rest,  and  bestowed 
himself  hi  the  woods  by  the  way  as  they 
were  to  pass,  and  so  intercepted  and  car- 
ried away  an  infinite  mass  of  gold.  As 
for  the  silver,  which  was  not  portable  over 
the  mountains,  they  digged  holes  hi  the 
ground  and  hid  it  therein. 

There  want  not  those  who  love  to  beat 
down  the  price  of  every  honorable  action, 
though  they  themselves  never  mean  to  be 
chapmen.  These  cry  up  Drake's  for- 
tune herein  to  cry  down  his  valor;  as  if 
this  his  performance  were  nothing,  wherein 
a  golden  opportunity  ran  his  head,  with 
his  long  forelock,  into  Drake's  hands  be- 
yond expectation.  But,  certainly,  his 
resolution  and  unconquerable  patience 
deserved  much  praise,  to  adventure  on 
such  a  design,  which  had  in  it  just  no 
more  probability  than  what  was  enough 
to  keep  it  from  being  impossible.  Yet 
I  admire  not  so  much  at  ah1  the  treasure 
he  took,  as  at  the  rich  and  deep  mine  of 
God's  providence. 

Having  now  full  freighted  himself  with 
wealth,  and  burnt  at  the  House  of  Crosses 
above  two  hundred  thousand  pounds' 
worth  of  Spanish  merchandise,  he  re- 
turned with  honor  and  safety  into  Eng- 
land, and,  some  years  after  (December 
i3th,  1577)  undertook  that  his  famous 
voyage  about  the  world,  most  accurately 
described  by  our  English  authors:  and 
yet  a  word  or  two  thereof  will  not  be 
amiss. 

Setting   forward    from    Plymouth,    he 


bore  up  for  Cabo-verd,  where,  near  to  the 
island  of  St.  Jago,  he  took  prisoner  Nuno 
de  Silva,  an  experienced  Spanish  pilot, 
whose  direction  he  used  in  the  coasts 
of  Brazil  and  Magellan  Straits,  and 
afterwards  safely  landed  him  at  Gua- 
tulco  in  New  Spain.  Hence  they  took 
their  course  to  the  Island  of  Brava;  and 
hereabouts  they  met  with  those  tempes- 
tuous winds  whose  only  praise  is,  that  they 
continue  not  an  hour,  in  which  time  they 
change  all  the  points  of  the  compass. 
Here  they  had  great  plenty  of  rain, 
poured  (not,  as  in  other  places,  as  it  were 
out  of  sieves,  but)  as  out  of  spouts,  so 
that  a  butt  of  water  falls  down  in  a  place ; 
which,  notwithstanding,  is  but  a  courteous 
injury  in  that  hot  climate  far  from  land, 
and  where  otherwise  fresh  water  cannot 
be  provided.  Then  cutting  the  Line, 
they  saw  the  face  of  that  heaven  which 
earth  hideth  from  us,  but  therein  only 
three  stars  of  the  first  greatness,  the  rest 
few  and  small  compared  to  our  hemis- 
phere; as  if  God,  on  purpose,  had  set  up 
the  best  and  biggest  candles  in  that  room 
wherein  his  civilest  guests  are  entertained. 

Sailing  the  south  of  Brazil,  he  after- 
wards passed  the  Magellan  Straits  (Au- 
gust aoth,  1578)  and  then  entered  Mare 
Pacificum  [the  Pacific  Ocean],  came  to  the 
southernmost  land  at  the  height  of  55^ 
latitudes;  thence  directing  his  course 
northward,  he  pillaged  many  Spanish 
towns,  and  took  rich  prizes  of  high  value 
in  the  kingdoms  of  Chili,  Peru,  and  New 
Spain.  Then,  bending  westwards,  he 
coasted  China,  and  the  Moluccas,  where, 
by  the  king  of  Terrenate,  a  true  gen- 
tleman Pagan,  he  was  most  honorably 
entertained.  The  king  told  them,  they 
and  he  were  all  of  one  religion  in  this 
respect, — that  they  believed  not  in  gods 
made  of  stocks  and  stones,  as  did  the 
Portugals.  He  furnished  them  also  with 
all  necessaries  that  they  wanted. 

On  January  gth  following  (1579),  his 
ship,  having  a  large  wind  and  a  smooth 
sea,  ran  aground  on  a  dangerous  shoal, 
and  struck  twice  on  it;  knocking  twice 
at  the  door  of  death,  which,  no  doubt, 
had  opened  the  third  tune.  Here  they 


BIOGRAPHY 


325 


stuck,  from  eight  o'clock  at  night  till  four 
the  next  afternoon,  having  ground  too 
much,  and  yet  too  little  to  land  on;  and 
water  too  much,  and  yet  too  little  to  sail  in. 
Had  God  (who,  as  the  wise  man  saitb/'hold- 
eth  the  winds  in  his  fist,"  Prov.  xxx.4)  but 
opened  his  little  finger,  and  let  out  the 
smallest  blast,  they  had  undoubte<lly  been 
cast  away;  but  there  blew  not  any  wind 
all  the  while.  Then  they,  conceiving 
aright  that  the  best  way  to  lighten  the 
ship  was,  first,  to  ease  it  of  the  burden  of 
their  sins  by  true  repentance,  humbled 
themselves,  by  fasting,  under  the  hand  of 
God.  Afterwards  they  received  the  com- 
munion, dining  on  Christ  in  the  sacra- 
ment, expecting  no  other  than  to  sup  with 
him  in  heaven.  Then  they  cast  out  of 
their  ship  six  great  pieces  of  ordnance, 
threw  overboard  as  much  wealth  as 
would  break  the  heart  of  a  miser  to  think 
on  it,  with  much  sugar,  and  packs  of 
spices,  making  a  caudle  of  the  sea  round 
about.  Then  they  betook  themselves  to 
their  prayers,  the  best  lever  at  such  a 
dead  lift  indeed;  and  it  pleased  God,  that 
the  wind,  formerly  their  mortal  enemy, 
became  their  friend;  which,  changing 
from  the  starboard  to  the  larboard  of 
the  ship,  and  rising  by  degrees,  cleared 
them  off  to  the  sea  again, — for  which 
they  returned  unfeigned  thanks  to  Al- 
mighty God. 

By  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  west 
ot  Africa,  he  returned  safe  into  England, 
and  (November  3rd,  1580)  landed  at 
Plymouth  (being  almost  the  first  of  those 
that  made  a  thorough  light  through  the 
world),  having,  hi  his  whole  voyage, 
though  a  curious  searcher  after  the  time, 
lost  one  day  through  the  variation  of 
several  climates.  He  feasted  the  queen 
in  his  ship  at  Dartford,  who  knighted 
him  for  his  service.  Yet  it  grieved  him 
not  a  little,  that  some  prime  courtiers 
refused  the  gold  he  offered  them,  as  gotten 
by  piracy.  Some  of  them  would  have  been 
loath  to  have  been  told,  that  they  had  aurum 
Tholosanum  [gold  of  Spain]  in  their  own 
purses.  Some  think,  that  they  did  it 
to  show  that  their  envious  pride  was  above 
their  covetousness,  who  of  set  purpose  did 


blur  the  fair  copy  of  his  performance,  be- 
cause they  would  not  take  pains  to  write 
after  it. 

I  pass  by  his  next  West-Indian  voyage 
(1585),  wherein  he  took  the  cities  of  St. 
Jago,  St.  Domingo,  Carthagena,  and  St. 
Augustine  in  Florida;  as  also  his  service 
performed  in  1588,  wherein  he,  with  many 
others,  helped  to  the  waning  of  that  half- 
moon,  which  sought  to  govern  all  the 
motion  of  our  sea.  I  haste  to  his  last 
voyage. 

Queen  Elizabeth,  in  1595,  perceiving 
that  the  only  way  to  make  the  Spaniard 
a  cripple  forever,  was  to  cut  his  sinews 
of  war  in  the  West  Indies,  furnished  Sir 
Francis  Drake,  and  Sir  John  Hawkins, 
with  six  of  her  own  ships,  besides  twenty- 
one  ships  and  barks  of  their  own  provid- 
ing, containing  in  all  two  thousand  five 
hundred  men  and  boys,  for  some  service 
on  America.  But,  alas!  this  voyage  was 
marred  before  begun.  For,  so  great  prep- 
arations being  too  big  for  a  cover,  the 
King  of  Spain  knew  of  it,  and  sent  a  car- 
aval  of  adviso  to  the  West  Indies;  so 
that  they  had  intelligence  three  weeks 
before  the  fleet  set  forth  of  England,  either 
to  fortify  or  remove  their  treasure;  whereas, 
in  other  of  Drake's  voyages,  not  two  of  his 
own  men  knew  whither  he  went;  and 
managing  such  a  design  is  like  carrying  a 
mine  in  war, — if  it  hath  any  vent,  all  is 
spoiled.  Besides,  Drake  and  Hawkins, 
being  in  joint  commission,  hindered  each 
other.  The  latter  took  himself  to  be 
inferior  rather  in  success  than  skill;  and 
the  action  was  unlike  to  prosper  when 
neither  would  follow,  and  both  could  not 
handsomely  go  abreast.  It  vexed  old 
Hawkins,  that  his  counsel  was  not  fol- 
lowed, in  present  sailing  to  America,  but 
that  they  spent  time  hi  vain  in  assaulting 
the  Canaries;  and  the  grief  that  his  advice 
was  slighted,  say  some,  was  the  cause  of  his 
death.  Others  impute  it  to  the  sorrow  he 
took  for  the  taking  of  his  bark  called  the 
"Francis,"  which  five  Spanish  frigates  had 
intercepted.  But  when  the  same  heart 
hath  two  mortal  wounds  given  it  together, 
it  is  hard  to  say  which  of  them  killeth. 

Drake  continued  his  course  for  Porto 


326 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Rico;  and,  riding  within  the  road,  a  shot 
from  the  Castle  entered  the  steerage  of 
^he  ship,  took  away  the  stool  from  under 
him  as  he  sat  at  supper,  wounded  Sir 
Nicholas  Clifford,  and  Brute  Brown  to 
death.  "Ah,  dear  Brute!"  said  Drake, 
"I  could  grieve  for  thee,  but  now  is  no 
tune  for  me  to  let  down  my  spirits." 
And,  indeed,  a  soldier's  most  proper  be- 
moaning a  friend's  death  in  war,  is  in 
revenging  it.  And,  sure,  as  if  grief  had 
made  the  English  furious,  they  soon  after 
fired  five  Spanish  ships  of  two  hundred 
tons  apiece,  in  despite  of  the  Castle. 

America  is  not  unfitly  resembled  to  an 
hourglass,  which  hath  a  narrow  neck 
of  land  (suppose  it  the  hole  where  the 
sand  passe  th),  betwixt  the  parts  thereof, 
— Mexicana  and  Peruana.  Now,  the 
English  had  a  design  to  march  by  land 
over  this  Isthmus,  from  Porto  Rico  to 
Panama,  where  the  Spanish  treasure  was 
laid  up.  Sir  Thomas  Baskerville,  gen- 
eral of  the  land-forces,  undertook  the 
service  with  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
armed  men.  They  marched  through  deep 
ways,  the  Spaniards  much  annoying  them 
with  shot  out  of  the  woods.  One  fort 
in  the  passage  they  assaulted  in  vain, 
and  heard  two  others  were  built  to  stop 
them,  besides  Panama  itself.  They  had 
so  much  of  this  breakfast  they  thought 
they  should  surfeit  of  a  dinner  and  sup- 
per of  the  same.  No  hope  of  conquest, 
except  with  cloying  the  jaws  of  death, 
and  thrusting  men  on  the  mouth  of  the 
cannon.  Wherefore,  fearing  to  find  the 
proverb  true,  that  "gold  may  be  bought 
too  dear,"  they  returned  to  their  ships. 
Drake  afterwards  fired  Nombre  de  Dios, 
and  many  other  petty  towns  (whose 
treasure  the  Spaniards  had  conveyed 
away), burning  the  empty  casks,  when  their 
precious  liquor  was  run  out  before,  and 
then  prepared  for  their  returning  home. 

Great  was  the  difference  betwixt  the 
Indian  cities  now,  from  what  they  were 
when  Drake  first  haunted  these  coasts. 
At  first,  the  Spaniards  here  were  safe  and 
secure,  counting  their  treasure  sufficient 
to  defend  itself,  the  remoteness  thereof 
being  the  greatest  (almost  only)  resist- 


ance, and  the  fetching  of  it  more  than 
the  fighting  for  it.  Whilst  the  King  of 
Spain  guarded  the  head  and  heart  of 
his  dominions  in  Europe,  he  left  his  long 
legs  in  America  open  to  blows;  till,  find- 
ing them  to  smart,  being  beaten  black  and 
blue  by  the  English,  he  learned  to  arm 
them  at  last,  fortifying  the  most  impor- 
tant of  them  to  make  them  impregnable. 
Now  began  Sir  Francis's  discontent  to 
feed  upon  him.  He  conceived,  that  ex- 
pectation, a  merciless  usurer,  computing 
each  day  since  his  departure,  exacted  an 
interest  and  return  of  honor  and  profit 
proportionable  to  his  great  preparations, 
and  transcending  his  former  achieve- 
ments. He  saw  that  all  the  good  which 
he  had  done  in  this  voyage,  consisted  in 
the  evil  he  had  done  to  the  Spaniards 
afar  off,  whereof  he  could  present  but 
small  visible  fruits  in  England.  These 
apprehensions,  accompanying,  if  not 
causing,  the  disease  of  the  flux,  wrought 
his  sudden  death,  January  a8th,  1595. 
And  sickness  did  not  so  much  untie  his 
clothes,  as  sorrow  did  rend  at  once  the 
robe  of  his  mortality  asunder.  He  lived 
by  the  sea,  died  on  it,  and  was  buried  in 
it.  Thus  an  extempore  performance 
(scarce  heard  to  be  begun  before  we  hear 
it  is  ended!)  comes  off  with  better  ap- 
plause, or  miscarries  with  less  disgrace, 
than  a  long-studied  and  openly-premedi- 
tated action.  Besides,  we  see  how  great 
spirits,  having  mounted  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  performance,  afterwards  strain 
and  break  their  credits  in  striving  to  go 
beyond  it.  Lastly,  God  oftentimes  leaves 
the  brightest  men  in  an  eclipse,  to  show 
that  they  do  but  borrow  their  luster  from 
his  reflexion.  We  will  not  justify  all  the 
actions  of  any  man,  though  of  a  turner  pro- 
fession than  a  sea-captain,  in  whom  civility 
is  often  counted  preciseness.  For  the  main, 
we  say  that  this  our  captain  was  a  relig- 
ious man  towards  God  and  his  houses  (gen- 
erally sparing  churches  where  he  came), 
chaste  in  his  life,  just  in  his  dealings,  true 
of  his  word,  and  merciful  to  those  that  were 
under  him,  hating  nothing  so  much  as 
idleness:  and  therefore,  lest  his  soul 
should  rust  in  peace,  at  spare  hours  he 


327 


urought  fresh  water  to  Plymouth.  Care- 
tul  he  was  for  posterity  (though  men  of 
his  profession  have  as  well  an  ebb  of 
riot,  as  a  float  of  fortune)  and  provi- 
dently raised  a  worshipful  family  of  his 


kindred.  In  a  word:  should  those  that 
speak  against  him  fast  till  they  fetch  their 
bread  where  he  did  his,  they  would  have 
a  good  stomach  to  eat  it. 

(1642) 


JAMES  BOSWELL  (1740-1795) 

This  Scotch  burr  assiduously  attached  himself  during  several  years  to  the  person  of  the  great  con- 
versational hero  and  dictator,  and  out  of  his  notes  has  compiled  perhaps  the  most  interesting  biography 
that  has  ever  been  written  (1791).  The  mind,  the  manners,  the  opinions  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  of  that 
remarkable  eighteenth  century  Englishman  have  been  presented  with  the  utmost  fidelity.  The  follow- 
ing extracts  from  this  fascinating  book  reveal  his  peculiarities  and  display  his  strength,  his  fine  common 
sense,  and  his  prejudices. 


THE  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 
BOSWELL'S  FIRST  MEETING  WITH  JOHNSON 

MR.  THOMAS  D AVIES,  the  actor,  who  then 
kept  a  bookseller's  shop  in  Russell-street, 
Covent-Garden,  told  me  that  Johnson 
was  very  much  his  friend,  and  came  fre- 
quently to  his  house,  where  he  more  than 
once  invited  me  to  meet  him;  but  by  some 
unlucky  accident  or  other  he  was  pre- 
vented from  coming  to  us. 

At  last,  on  Monday,  the  i6th  of  May, 
when  I  was  sitting  in  Mr.  Davies's  back- 
parlor,  after  having  drunk  tea  with  him 
and  Mrs.  Davies,  Johnson  unexpectedly 
came  into  the  shop;  and  Mr.  Davies  hav- 
ing perceived  him,  through  the  glass-door 
in  the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting,  ad- 
vancing towards  us, — he  announced  his 
awful  approach  to  me,  somewhat  in  the 
manner  of  an  actor  in  the  part  of  Horatio, 
when  he  addresses  Hamlet  on  the  appear- 
ance of  his  father's  ghost,  "Look,  my  Lord, 
it  comes! "  I  found  that  I  had  a  very  per- 
fect idea  of  Johnson's  figure,  from  the 
portrait  of  him  painted  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  soon  after  he  had  published  his 
Dictionary,  in  the  attitude  of  sitting  in  his 
easy  chair  in  deep  meditation.  Mr.  Davies 
mentioned  my  name,  and  respectfully 
introduced  me  to  him.  I  was  much  agi- 
tated; and  recollecting  his  prejudice 
against  the  Scotch,  of  which  I  had  heard 
much,  I  said  to  Davies,  "  Don't  tell  where 
I  come  from." — "From  Scotland,"  cried 
Davies,  roguishly.  "Mr.  Johnson,"  said 
I,  "I  do  indeed  come  from  Scotland,  but 
I  cannot  help  it."  I  am  willing  to  flatter 


myself  that  I  meant  this  as  light  pleas- 
antry to  soothe  and  conciliate  him,  and 
not  as  an  humiliating  abasement  at  the 
expense  of  my  country.  But  however 
that  might  be,  this  speech  was  somewhat 
unlucky;  for  with  that  quickness  of  wit 
for  which  he  was  so  remarkable,  he  seized 
the  expression,  "come  from  Scotland," 
which  I  used  hi  the  sense  of  being  of  that 
country;  and,  as  if  I  had  said  that  I  had 
come  away  from  it,  or  left  it,  retorted, 
"That,  sir,  I  find,  is  what  a  very  great 
many  of  your  countrymen  cannot  help." 
This  stroke  stunned  me  a  good  deal;  and 
when  we  had  sat  down,  I  felt  myself  not  a 
little  embarrassed,  and  apprehensive  of 
what  might  come  next.  He  then  addressed 
himself  to  Davies:  "What  do  you  think 
of  Garrick?  He  has  refused  me  an  order 
for  the  play  for  Miss  Williams,  because  he 
knows  the  house  will  be  full,  and  that  an 
order  would  be  worth  three  shilling." 
Eager  to  take  any  opening  to  get  into 
conversation  with  him,  I  ventured  to 
say,  "O  sir,  I  cannot  think  Mr.  Gar- 
rick  would  grudge  such  a  trifle  to  you." 
"Sir,"  said  he,  with  a  stern  look,  "I  have 
known  David  Garrick  longer  than  you 
have  done;  and  I  know  no  right  you  have 
to  talk  to  me  on  the  subject."  Perhaps 
I  deserved  this  check;  for  it  was  rather 
presumptuous  in  me,  an  entire  stranger, 
to  express  any  doubt  of  the  justice  of  his 
animadversion  upon  his  old  acquaintance 
and  pupil.  I  now  felt  myself  much  morti- 
fied, and  began  to  think  that  the  hope  which 
I  had  long  indulged  of  obtaining  his  ac- 
quaintance was  blasted.  And,  in  truth, 


328 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


had  not  my  ardor  been  uncommonly 
strong,  and  my  resolution  uncommonly 
persevering,  so  rough  a  reception  might 
have  deterred  me  from  ever  making  any 
further  attempts.  Fortunately,  however, 
I  remained  upon  the  field  not  wholly 
discomfited;  and  was  soon  rewarded  by 
hearing  some  of  his  conversation,  of  which 
I  preserved  the  following  short  minute, 
without  marking  the  questions  and  obser- 
vations by  which  it  was  produced. 

"People,"  he  remarked,  "may  be  taken 
in  once,  who  imagine  that  an  author  is 
greater  in  private  life  than  other  men. 
Uncommon  parts  require  uncommon  op- 
portunities for  their  exertion. 

"In  barbarous  society,  superiority  of 
parts  is  of  real  consequence.  Great  strength 
or  great  wisdom  is  of  much  value  to  an 
individual.  But  in  more  polished  times 
there  are  people  to  do  everything  for 
money;  and  then  there  are  a  number  of 
other  superiorities,  such  as  those  of  birth, 
and  fortune,  and  rank,  that  dissipate  men's 
attention,  and  leave  no  extraordinary 
share  of  respect  for  personal  and  intellect- 
ual superiority.  This  is  wisely  ordered 
by  Providence,  to  preserve  some  equality 
among  mankind." 

I  was  highly  pleased  with  the  extraor- 
dinary vigor  of  his  conversation,  and 
regretted  that  I  was  drawn  away  from  it 
by  an  engagement  at  another  place.  I 
had,  for  a  part  of  the  evening,  been  left 
alone  with  him,  and  had  ventured  to  make 
an  observation  now  and  then,  which  he 
received  very  civilly;  so  that  I  was  satis- 
fied that,  though  there  was  a  roughness 
in  his  manner,  there  was  no  ill-nature  in 
his  disposition.  Davies  followed  me  to 
the  door,  and  when  I  complained  to  him 
a  little  of  the  hard  blows  which  the  great 
man  had  given  me,  he  kindly  took  upon 
him  to  console  me  by  saying,  "Don't 
be  uneasy.  I  can  see  he  likes  you  very 
well." 

A  few  days  afterwards  I  called  on  Davies, 
and  asked  him  if  he  thought  I  might  take 
the  liberty  of  waiting  on  Mr.  Johnson  at 
his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  He  said  I 
certainly  might,  and  that  Mr.  Johnson 
would  take  it  as  a  compliment.  So,  on 


Tuesday,  the  24th  of  May,  after  having 
been  enlivened  by  the  witty  sallies  of 
Messieurs  Thornton,  Wilkes,  Churchill, 
and  Lloyd,  with  whom  I  had  passed  the 
morning,  I  boldly  repaired  to  Johnson.  His 
chambers  were  on  the  first  floor  of  No.  i, 
Inner  Temple-lane,  and  I  entered  them 
with  an  impression  given  me  by  the  Rev- 
erend Dr.  Blair,  of  Edinburgh,  who  had 
been  introduced  to  him  not  long  before, 
and  described  his  having  "found  the  Giant 
in  his  den;"  an  expression  which,  when  I 
came  to  be  pretty  well  acquainted  with 
Johnson,  I  repeated  to  him,  and  he  was 
diverted  at  this  picturesque  account  of 
himself.  Dr.  Blair  had  been  presented 
to  him  by  Dr.  James  Fordyce.  At  this 
time  the  controversy  concerning  the 
pieces  published  by  Mr.  James  Mac- 
pherson,  as  translations  of  Ossian,  was  at 
its  height.  Johnson  had  all  along  denied 
their  authenticity;  and,  what  was  still 
more  provoking  to  their  admirers,  main- 
tained that  they  had  no  merit.  The 
subject  having  been  introduced  by  Dr. 
Fordyce,  Dr.  Blair,  relying  on  the  internal 
evidence  of  their  antiquity,  asked  Dr. 
Johnson  whether  he  thought  any  man  of 
a  modern  age  could  have  written  such 
poems?  Johnson  replied,  "  Yes,  sir,  many 
men,  many  women,  and  many  children." 
Johnson,  at  this  time,  did  not  know  that 
Dr.  Blair  had  just  published  a  Dissertation, 
not  only  defending  their  authenticity,  but 
seriously  ranking  them  with  the  poems 
of  Homer  and  Virgil;  and  when  he  was 
afterwards  informed  of  this  circumstance, 
he  expressed  some  displeasure  at  Dr. 
Fordyce's  having  suggested  the  topic, 
and  said,  "I  am  not  sorry  that  they  got 
thus  much  for  their  pains.  Sir,  it  was  like 
leading  one  to  talk  of  a  book,  when  the 
author  is  concealed  behind  the  door." 

He  received  me  very  courteously;  but 
it  must  be  confessed  that  his  apartment, 
and  furniture,  and  morning  dress,  were 
sufficiently  uncouth.  His  brown  suit  of 
clothes  looked  very  rusty:  he  had  on  a  little 
old  shrivelled  unpowdered  wig,  which 
was  too  small  for  his  head;  his  shirt-neck 
and  knees  of  his  breeches  were  loose;  his 
black  worsted  stockings  ill  drawn  up,  and 


BIOGRAPHY 


329 


he  had  a  pair  of  unbuckled  shoes  by  way 
of  slippers.  But  all  these  slovenly  partic- 
ularities were  forgotten  the  moment  that 
lie  began  to  talk.  Some  gentlemen,  whom 
!  do  not  recollect,  were  sitting  with  him; 
and  when  they  went  away,  I  also  rose;  but 
he  said  to  me,  "Nay,  don't  go."  "Sir," 
said  I,  "I  am  afraid  that  I  intrude  upon 
you.  It  is  benevolent  to  allow  me  to  sit 
and  hear  you."  He  seemed  pleased  with 
this  compliment,  which  I  sincerely  paid 
him,  and  answered,  "Sir,  I  am  obliged  to 
any  man  who  visits  me."  I  have  pre- 
served the  following  short  minute  of  what 
passed  this  day: — 

"Madness  frequently  discovers  itself 
merely  by  unnecessary  deviation  from  the 
usual  modes  of  the  world.  My  poor  friend 
Smart  showed  the  disturbance  of  his  mind, 
by  falling  upon  his  knees,  and  saying  his 
prayers  in  the  street,  or  in  any  other  un- 
usual place.  Now,  although,  rationally 
speaking,  it  is  greater  madness  not  to 
pray  at  all,  than  to  pray  as  Smart  did,  I 
am  afraid  there  are  so  many  who  do  not 
pray,  that  their  understanding  is  not 
called  in  question." 

Concerning  this  unfortunate  poet,  Chris- 
v.opher  Smart,  who  was  confined  in  a  mad- 
house, he  had,  at  another  time,  the  follow- 
ing conversation  with  Dr.  Burney. 
BURNEY:  "How  does  poor  Smart  do, 
sir;  is  he  likely  to  recover?" — JOHNSON: 
"  It  seems  as  if  his  mind  had  ceased  to 
struggle  with  the  disease:  for  he  grows 
fat  upon  it." — BURNEY:  "Perhaps,  sir, 
that  may  be  from  want  of  exercise." — 
JOHNSON:  "No, sir; he  has  partly  as  much 
exercise  as  he  used  to  have,  for  he  digs  in 
the  garden.  Indeed,  before  his  confine- 
ment, he  used  for  exercise  to  walk  to  the 
ale-house;  but  he  was  carried  back  again. 
I  did  not  think  he  ought  to  be  shut  up. 
His  infirmities  were  not  noxious  to  society. 
He  insisted  on  people  praying  with  him, 
and  I'd  as  lief  pray  with  Kit  Smart  as 
any  one  else.  Another  charge  was,  that 
he  did  not  love  clean  linen;  and  I  have  no 
passion  for  it." 

Johnson  continued:  "Mankind  have 
a  great  aversion  to  intellectual  labor;  but 
even  supposing  knowledge  to  be  easily 


attainable,  more  people  would  be  content 
to  be  ignorant  than  would  take  even  a 
little  trouble  to  acquire  it." 

"The  morality  of  an  action  depends 
on  the  motive  from  which  we  act.  If 
I  fling  half-a-crown  to  a  beggar,  with  inten- 
tion to  break  his  head,  and  he  picks  it  up 
and  buys  victuals  with  it,  the  physical 
effect  is  good;  but,  with  respect  to  me, 
the  action  is  very  wrong.  So  religious 
exercises,  if  not  performed  with  an  inten- 
tion to  please  God,  avail  us  nothing.  As 
our  Saviour  says  of  those  who  perform 
them  from  other  motives,  'Verily  they 
have  their  reward.'" 

Talking  of  Garrick,  he  said,  "He  is  the 
first  man  in  the  world  for  sprightly  con- 
versation." 

When  I  rose  a  second  time,  he  again 
pressed  me  to  stay,  which  I  did. 

He  told  me,  that  he  generally  went 
abroad  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  sel- 
dom came  home  till  two  in  the  morning. 
I  took  the  liberty  to  ask  if  he  did  not  think 
it  wrong  to  live  thus,  and  not  make 
more  use  of  his  great  talents.  He  owned 
it  a  bad  habit.  On  reviewing,  at  the 
distance  of  many  years,  my  journal  of  this 
period,  I  wonder  how,  at  my  first  visit,  I 
ventured  to  talk  to  him  so  freely,  and  that 
he  bore  it  with  so  much  indulgence. 

Before  we  parted,  he  was  so  good  as 
to  promise  to  favor  me  with  his  company 
one  evening  at  my  lodgings;  and,  as  I  took 
my  leave,  shook  me  cordially  by  the 
hand.  It  is  almost  needless  to  add  that 
I  felt  no  little  elation  at  having  now  so 
happily  established  an  acquaintance  of 
which  I  had  been  so  long  ambitious. 

My  readers  will,  I  trust,  excuse  me  for 
being  thus  minutely  circumstantial,  when 
it  is  considered  that  the  acquaintance  of 
Dr.  Johnson  was  to  me  a  most  valuable 
acquisition,  and  laid  the  foundation  of 
whatever  instruction  and  entertainment 
they  may  receive  from  my  collections  con- 
cerning the  great  subject  of  the  work  which 
they  are  now  perusing. 

I  did  not  visit  him  again  till  Monday, 
June  13,  at  which  time  I  recollect  no  part 
of  his  conversation,  except,  that  when  I 
told  him  I  had  been  to  see  Johnson  ride 


330 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


upon  three  horses,  he  said,  "Such  a  man, 
sir,  should  be  encouraged;  for  his  perform- 
ances show  the  extent  of  the  human 
powers  in  one  instance,  and  thus  tend  to 
raise  our  opinion  of  the  faculties  of  man. 
He  shows  what  may  be  attained  by  per- 
severing application;  so  that  every  man 
may  hope,  that  by  giving  as  much  appli- 
cation, although,  perhaps,  he  may  never 
ride  three  horses  at  a  time,  or  dance  upon 
a  wire,  yet  he  may  be  equally  expert  in 
whatever  profession  he  has  chosen  to 
pursue." 

He  again  shook  me  by  the  hand  at  part- 
ing, and  asked  me  why  I  did  not  come 
oftener  to  him.  Trusting  that  I  was  now 
in  his  good  graces,  I  answered,  that  he  had 
not  given  me  much  encouragement,  and 
reminded  him  of  the  check  I  had  received 
from  him  at  our  first  interview.  "Poh, 
poh!"  said  he,  with  a  complacent  smile, 
"never  mind  these  things.  Come  to  me 
as  often  as  you  can.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
you." 

I  had  learnt  that  his  place  of  frequent 
resort  was  the  Mitre  tavern  in  Fleet- 
street,  where  he  loved  to  sit  up  late,  and  I 
begged  I  might  be  allowed  to  pass  an 
evening  with  him  there  soon,  which  he 
promised  I  should.  A  few  days  afterwards 
I  met  him  near  Temple-bar  about  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  asked  if  he 
would  then  go  to  the  Mitre.  "Sir,"  said 
he,  "it  is  too  late,  they  won't  let  us  in. 
But  I'll  go  with  you  another  night,  with  all 
my  heart." 

A  revolution  of  some  importance  in  my 
plan  of  life  had  just  taken  place:  for  in- 
stead of  procuring  a  commission  in  the 
foot  guards,  which  was  my  own  inclina- 
tion, I  had,  in  compliance  with  my 
father's  wishes,  agreed  to  study  the  law, 
and  was  soon  to  set  out  for  Utrecht,  to 
hear  the  lectures  of  an  excellent  civilian 
in  that  University,  and  then  to  proceed 
on  my  travels.  Though  very  desirous 
of  obtaining  Dr.  Johnson's  advice  and 
instructions  on  the  mode  of  pursuing  my 
studies,  I  was  at  this  time  so  occupied, 
shall  I  call  it?  or  so  dissipated  by  the 
amusements  of  London,  that  our  next 
meeting  was  not  till  Saturday,  June  25, 


when  happening  to  dine  at  Clifton's  eating- 
house,  in  Butcher-row,  I  was  surprised  to 
perceive  Johnson  come  in  and  take  his 
seat  at  another  table.  The  mode  of  din- 
ing, or  rather  being  fed,  at  such  houses  in 
London,  is  well  known  to  many  to  be 
particularly  unsocial,  as  there  is  no  ordi- 
nary, or  united  company,  but  each  person 
has  his  own  mess,  and  is  under  no  obliga- 
tion to  hold  any  intercourse  with  any  one. 
A  liberal  and  full-minded  man,  however, 
who  loves  to  talk,  will  break  through  this 
churlish  and  unsocial  restraint.  Johnsan 
and  an  Irish  gentleman  got  into  a  dispute 
concerning  the  cause  of  some  part  of  man- 
kind being  black.  "Why,  sir,"  said 
Johnson,  "it  has  been  accounted  for  in 
three  ways:  either  by  supposing  that  they 
are  the  posterity  of  Ham,  who  was  cursed, 
or  that  God  at  first  created  two  kinds  of 
men,  one  black,  and  another  white,  or 
that,  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  the  skin  is 
scorched,  and  so  acquires  a  sooty  hue. 
This  matter  has  been  much  canvassed 
among  naturalists,  but  has  never  been 
brought  to  any  certain  issue."  What  the 
Irishman  said  is  totally  obliterated  from 
my  mind;  but  I  remember  that  he  be- 
came very  warm  and  intemperate  in  his 
expressions;  upon  which  Johnson  rose, 
and  quietly  walked  away.  When  he  had 
retired,  his  antagonist  took  his  revenge, 
as  he  thought,  by  saying,  "He  has  a 
most  ungainly  figure,  and  an  affectation 
of  pomposity  unworthy  of  a  man  of 
genius." 

Johnson  had  not  observed  that  I  was 
in  the  room.  I  followed  him,  however, 
and  he  agreed  to  meet  me  in  the  evening 
at  the  Mitre.  I  called  on  him,  and  we 
went  thither  at  nine.  We  had  a  good 
supper,  and  port  wine,  of  which  he  then 
sometimes  drank  a  bottle.  The  orthodox 
high-church  sound  of  the  Mitre, — the 
figure  and  manner  of  the  celebrated  Sam- 
uel Johnson, — the  extraordinary  power 
and  precision  of  his  conversation,  and  the 
pride,  arising  from  finding  myself  admitted 
as  his  companion,  produced  a  variety  of 
sensations,  and  a  pleasing  elevation  of 
mind  beyond  what  I  had  ever  before 
experienced. 


BIOGRAPHY 


JOHNSON'S  INTERVIEW  WITH  THE  KING 

IN  FEBRUARY,  1767,  there  happened  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  incidents  of  John- 
son's life,  which  gratified  his  monarchical 
enthusiasm,  and  which  he  loved  to  relate 
with  all  its  circumstances,  when  requested 
by  his  friends.  This  was  his  being  hon- 
ored by  a  private  conversation  with  his 
Majesty,  hi  the  library  at  the  Queen's 
house.  He  had  frequently  visited  those 
splendid  rooms,  and  noble  collection  of 
books,  which  he  used  to  say  was  more 
numerous  and  curious  than  he  supposed 
any  person  could  have  made  in  the  time 
which  the  king  had  employed.  Mr.  Bar- 
nard, the  librarian,  took  care  that  he 
should  have  every  accommodation  that 
could  contribute  to  his  ease  and  conve- 
nience, while  indulging  his  literary  taste 
in  that  place — so  that  he  had  here  a  very 
agreeable  resource  at  leisure  hours. 

His  Majesty  having  been  informed  of 
his  occasional  visits,  was  pleased  to  signify 
a  desire  that  he  should  be  told  when  Dr. 
Johnson  came  next  to  the  library.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  next  time  that  Johnson  did 
come,  as  soon  as  he  was  fairly  engaged  with 
a  book,  on  which,  while  he  sat  by  the  fire, 
he  seemed  quite  intent,  Mr.  Barnard  stole 
round  to  the  apartment  where  the  king 
was,  and,  hi  obedience  to  his  Majesty's 
commands,  mentioned  that  Dr.  Johnson 
was  then  in  the  library.  His  Majesty 
said  he  was  at  leisure,  and  would  go  to  him: 
upon  which  Mr.  Barnard  took  one  of  the 
candles  that  stood  on  the  king's  table, 
and  lighted  his  Majesty  through  a  suite 
of  rooms,  till  they  came  to  a  private  door 
into  the  library,  of  which  his  Majesty  had 
the  key.  Being  entered,  Mr.  Barnard 
stepped  forward  hastily  to  Dr.  Johnson, 
who  was  still  in  a  profound  study,  and 
whispered  him,  "Sir,  here  is  the  king." 
Johnson  started  up,  and  stood  still.  His 
Majesty  approached  him,  and  at  once 
was  courteously  easy. 

His  Majesty  began  by  observing,  that 
he  understood  he  came  sometimes  to  the 
library:  and  then  mentioned  his  having 
heard  that  the  Doctor  had  been  lately  at 
Oxford,  asked  him  if  he  was  not  fond  of 


going  thither.  To  which  Johnson  an- 
swered, that  he  was  indeed  fond  of  going 
to  Oxford  sometimes,  but  was  likewise 
glad  to  come  back  again.  The  king  then 
asked  him  what  they  were  doing  at  Ox- 
ford. Johnson  answered,  he  could  not 
much  commend  then:  diligence,  but  that 
in  some  respects  they  were  mended,  for 
they  had  put  their  press  under  better 
regulations,  and  were  at  that  tune  printing 
Polybius.  He  was  then  asked  whether 
there  were  better  libraries  at  Oxford  or 
Cambridge.  He  answered,  he  believed 
the  Bodleian  was  larger  than  any  they  had 
at  Cambridge;  at  the  same  time  adding, 
"I  hope,  whether  we  have  more  books  or 
not  than  they  have  at  Cambridge,  we 
shall  make  as  good  use  of  them  as  they 
do."  Being  asked  whether  All-Souls  or 
Christ-Church  library  was  the  largest, 
he  answered,  "All-Souls  library  is  the 
largest  we  have,  except  the  Bodleian." 
"Ay,"  said  the  king,  "that  is  the  public 
library." 

His  Majesty  inquired  if  he  was  then 
writing  anything.  He  answered,  he  was 
not,  for  he  had  pretty  well  told  the  world 
what  he  knew,  and  must  now  read  to  ac- 
quire more  knowledge.  The  king,  as  it 
should  seem  with  a  view  to  urge  him  to 
rely  on  his  own  stores  as  an  original 
writer,  and  to  continue  his  labors,  then 
said,  "I  do  not  think  you  borrow  much 
from  anybody."  Johnson  said,  he  thought 
he  had  already  done  his  part  as  a  writer. 
"  I  should  have  thought  so  too,"  said  the 
king,  "if  you  had  not  written  so  well." 
— Johnson  observed  to  me,  upon  this,  that 
"no  man  could  have  paid  a  handsomer 
compliment;  and  it  was  fit  for  a  king  to 
pay.  It  was  decisive."  When  asked  by 
another  friend,  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's 
whether  he  made  any  reply  to  this  high 
compliment,  he  answered,  "No,  sir. 
When  the  king  had  said  it,  it  was  to  be  so. 
It  was  not  for  me  to  bandy  civilities  with 
my  sovereign."  Perhaps  no  man  who 
had  spent  his  whole  life  in  courts  could 
have  shown  a  more  nice  and  dignified 
sense  of  true  politeness  than  Johnson 
did  in  this  instance. 

His  Majesty  having  observed  to  him 


332 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


that  he  supposed  he  must  have  read  a 
great  deal,  Johnson  answered,  that  he 
thought  more  than  he  read;  that  he  had 
read  a  great  deal  in  the  early  part  of  his 
life,  but  having  fallen  into  ill-health,  he 
had  not  been  able  to  read  much,  compared 
with  others;  for  instance,  he  said  he  had 
not  read  much,  compared  with  Dr. 
Warburton.  Upon  which  the  king  said, 
that  he  heard  Dr.  Warburton  was  a  man 
of  such  general  knowledge,  that  you  could 
scarce  talk  with  him  on  any  subject  on 
which  he  was  not  qualified  to  speak;  and 
that  his  learning  resembled  Garrick's 
acting,  in  its  universality.  His  Majesty 
then  talked  of  the  controversy  between 
Warburton  and  Lowth,  which  he  seems 
to  have  read,  and  asked  Johnson  what  he 
thought  of  it.  Johnson  answered,  "War- 
burton  has  most  general,  most  scholastic 
learning:  Lowth  is  the  more  correct 
scholar.  I  do  not  know  which  of  them 
,  calls  names  best."  The  king  was  pleased 
to  say  he  was  of  the  same  opinion:  adding, 
"You  do  not  think,  then,  Dr.  Johnson, 
that  there  was  much  argument  in  the 
case."  Johnson  said,  he  did  not  think 
there  was.  "Why,  truly,"  said  the  king, 
"when  once  it  comes  to  calling  names, 
argument  is  pretty  well  at  an  end." 

His  Majesty  then  asked  him  what  he 
thought  of  Lord  Lyttelton's  history, 
which  was  then  just  published.  Johnson 
said,  he  thought  his  style  pretty  good, 
but  that  he  had  blamed  Henry  the  Second 
rather  too  much.  "Why,"  said  the  king, 
"they  seldom  do  these  things  by  halves." 
"No,  sir,"  answered  Johnson,  "not  to 
kings."  But  fearing  to  be  misunderstood, 
he  proceeded  to  explain  himself;  and  im- 
mediately subjoined,  "That  for  those  who 
spoke  worse  of  kings  than  they  deserved, 
he  could  find  no  excuse;  but  that  he  could 
more  easily  conceive  how  some  might 
speak  better  of  them  than  they  deserved, 
without  any  ill  intention;  for,  as  kings  had 
much  hi  their  power  to  give,  those  who 
were  favored  by  them  would  frequently, 
from  gratitude,  exaggerate  then*  praises; 
and  as  this  proceeded  from  a  good  motive, 
it  was  certainly  excusable,  as  far  as  error 
could  be  excusable."  \ 


The  king  then  asked  him  what  he 
thought  of  Dr.  Hill.  Johnson  answered, 
that  he  was  an  ingenious  man,  but  had  no 
veracity;  and  immediately  mentioned, 
as  an  instance  of  it,  an  assertion  of  that 
writer,  that  he  had  seen  objects  magni- 
fied to  a  much  greater  degree  by  using 
three  or  four  microscopes  at  a  time  than 
by  using  one.  "Now,"  added  Johnson, 
"every  one  acquainted  with  microscopes 
knows,  that  the  more  of  them  he  looks 
through,  the  less  the  object  will  appear." 
"Why,"  replied  the  king,  "this  is  not  only 
telling  an  untruth,  but  telling  it  clumsily; 
for,  if  that  be  the  case,  every  one  who  can 
look  through  a  microscope  will  be  able 
to  detect  him." 

"I  now,"  said  Johnson  to  his  friends, 
when  relating  what  had  passed,  "began  to 
consider  that  I  was  depreciating  this  man 
in  the  estimation  of  his  sovereign,  and 
thought  it  was  time  for  me  to  say  some- 
thing that  might  be  more  favorable." 
He  added,  therefore,  that  Dr.  Hill  was, 
notwithstanding,  a  very  curious  observer; 
and  if  he  would  have  been  contented  to 
tell  the  world  no  more  than  he  knew,  he 
might  have  been  a  very  considerable  man, 
and  needed  not  to  have  recourse  to  such 
mean  expedients  to  raise  his  reputation. 

The  king  then  talked  of  literary  jour- 
nals, mentioned  particularly  the  Journal 
des  savans,  and  asked  Johnson  if  it  was 
well  done.  Johnson  said,  it  was  formerly 
very  well  done,  and  gave  some  account  of 
the  persons  who  began  it,  and  carried  it 
on  for  some  years;  enlarging,  at  the  same 
time,  on  the  nature  and  use  of  such  works. 
The  king  asked  him  if  it  was  well  done 
now.  Johnson  answered,  he  had  no  reason 
to  think  that  it  was.  The  king  then 
asked  him  if  there  were  any  other  literary 
journals  published  in  this  kingdom,  except 
the  Monthly  and  Critical  Reviews;  and 
on  being  answered  there  was  no  other,  his 
Majesty  asked  which  of  them  was  the 
best;  Johnson  answered,  that  the  Monthly 
Review  was  done  with  most  care,  the 
Critical  upon  the  best  principles;  adding, 
that  the  authors  of  the  Monthly  Review 
were  enemies  to  the  Church.  This  the 
king  said  he  was  sorry  to  hear. 


BIOGRAPHY 


333 


The  conversation  next  turned  on  the 
Philosophical  Transactions,  when  Johnson 
observed  that  they  had  now  a  better 
method  of  arranging  their  materials  than 
formerly.  "Ay,"  said  the  king,  "they 
are  obliged  to  Dr.  Johnson  for  that:"  for 
his  Majesty  had  heard  and  remembered 
the  circumstance,  which  Johnson  himself 
had  forgot. 

His  Majesty  expressed  a  desire  to  have 
the  literary  biography  of  this  country  ably 
executed,  and  proposed  to  Dr.  Johnson  to 
undertake  it.  Johnson  signified  his  readi- 
ness to  comply  with  his  Majesty's  wishes. 

During  the  whole  of  this  interview, 
Johnson  talked  to  his  Majesty  with  pro- 
found respect,  but  still  in  his  firm  manly 
manner  with  a  sonorous  voice,  and  never 
in  that  subdued  tone  which  is  commonly 
used  at  the  levee  and  in  the  drawing-room. 
After  the  king  withdrew  Johnson  showed 
himself  highly  pleased  with  his  Majesty's 
conversation,  and  gracious  behavior.  He 
said  to  Mr.  Barnard,  "Sir,  they  may  talk 
of  fie  king  as  they  will;  but  he  is  the  finest 
geikJeman  I  have  ever  seen."  And  he 
afterwards  observed  to  Mr.  Langton, 
"Sir,  his  manners  are  those  of  as  fine  a 
gentleman  as  we  may  suppose  Louis  the 
Fourteenth  or  Charles  the  Second." 

JOHNSON'S  CONVERSATIONS 

IN  1769,  so  far  as  I  can  discover,  the 
public  was  favored  with  nothing  of  John- 
son's composition,  either  for  himself  or 
any  of  his  friends.  His  "Meditations" 
too  strongly  prove  that  he  suffered  much 
both  in  body  and  mind;  yet  was  he  per- 
petually striving  against  evil,  and  nobly 
endeavoring  to  advance  his  intellectual 
and  devotional  improvement. 

His  Majesty  having  the  preceding  year 
instituted  the  Royal  Academy  of  Arts  in 
London,  Johnson  had  now  the  honor  of 
being  appointed  Professor  in  Ancient 
Literature. 

I  came  to  London  in  the  autumn,  and 
having  informed  him  that  I  was  going  to 
be  married  in  a  few  months,  I  wished  to 
have  as  much  of  his  conversation  as  I 
could  before  engaging  in  a  state  of  life 


which  would  probably  keep  me  more  in 
Scotland,  and  prevent  me  seeing  him  so 
often  as  when  I  was  a  single  man;  but  I 
found  he  was  at  Brighthelmstone  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thrale.  After  his  return 
to  town,  we  met  frequently,  and  I  con- 
tinued the  practice  of  making  notes  of  his 
conversation,  though  not  with  so  much 
assiduity  as  I  wish  I  had  done.  At  this 
tune,  indeed,  I  had  a  sufficient  excuse  for 
not  being  able  to  appropriate  so  much 
time  to  my  journal;  for  General  Paoli, 
after  Corsica  had  been  overpowered  by 
the  monarchy  of  France,  was  now  no 
longer  at  the  head  of  his  brave  country- 
men, but  having  with  difficulty  escaped 
from  bis  native  island,  had  sought  an 
asylum  in  Great  Britain;  and  it  was  my 
duty,  as  well  as  my  pleasure,  to  attend 
much  upon  him.  Such  particulars  of 
Johnson's  conversation  at  this  period  as  I 
have  committed  to  writing,  I  shall  here 
introduce,  without  any  strict  attention  to 
methodical  arrangement.  Sometimes  short 
notes  of  different  days  shall  be  blended 
together,  and  sometimes  a  day  may  seem 
important  enough  to  be  separately  dis- 
tinguished. 

He  said,  he  would  not  have  Sunday 
kept  with  rigid  severity  and  gloom,  but 
with  a  gravity  and  simplicity  of  behavior. 

He  would  not  admit  the  importance  of 
the  question  concerning  the  legality  of 
general  warrants.  "Such  a  power,"  he 
observed,  "must  be  vested  in  every  gov- 
ernment, to  answer  particular  cases  of 
necessity;  and  there  can  be  no  just  com- 
plaint but  when  it  is  abused,  for  which 
those  who  administer  government  must  be 
answerable.  It  is  a  matter  of  such 
indifference,  a  matter  about  which  the 
people  care  so  very  little,  that  were  a  man 
to  be  sent  over  Britain  to  offer  them  an 
exemption  from  it  at  a  halfpenny  apiece, 
very  few  would  purchase  it."  This  was 
a  specimen  of  that  laxity  of  talking,  which 
I  had  heard  him  fairly  acknowledge;  for, 
surely,  while  the  power  of  granting  gen- 
eral warrants  was  supposed  to  be  legal, 
and  the  apprehension  of  them  hung  over 
our  heads,  we  did  not  possess  that  security 
of  freedom,  congenial  to  our  happy  con- 


334 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


stitution,  and  which,  by  the  intrepid  exer- 
tions of  Mr.  Wilkes,  has  been  happily 
established. 

He  said,  "The  duration  of  Parliament, 
whether  for  seven  years  or  the  life  of  the 
King,  appears  to  me  so  immaterial,  that  I 
would  not  give  half-a-crown  to  turn  the 
scale  one  way  or  the  other.  The  habeas 
corpus  is  the  single  advantage  which  our 
government  has  over  that  of  other  coun- 
tries." 

On  the  3oth  of  September  we  dined  to- 
gether at  the  Mitre.  I  attempted  to 
argue  for  the  superior  happiness  of  the 
savage  life,  upon  the  usual  fanciful  topics. 
JOHNSON:  "Sir,  there  can  be  nothing  more 
false.  The  savages  have  no  bodily  ad- 
vantages beyond  those  of  civilized  men. 
They  have  not  better  health;  and  as  to 
care  or  mental  uneasiness,  they  are  not 
above  it,  but  below  it,  like  bears.  No, 
sir;  you  are  not  to  talk  such  paradox: 
let  me  have  no  more  on't.  It  cannot  en- 
tertain, far  less  can  it  instruct.  Lord 
Monboddo,  one  of  your  Scotch  judges, 
talked  a  great  deal  of  such  nonsense.  I 
suffered  him,  but  I  will  not  suffer  you." 
BOSWELL:  "But,  sir,  does  not  Rousseau 
talk  such  nonsense?"  JOHNSON:  "True, 
sir;  but  Rousseau  knows  he  is  talking  non- 
sense, and  laughs  at  the  world  for  staring  at 
him."  BOSWELL: "How so, sir?"  JOHNSON: 
"Why,  sir,  a  man  who  talks  nonsense  so 
well,  must  know  that  he  is  talking  non- 
sense. But  I  am  afraid  (chuckling  and 
laughing)  Monboddo,  does  not  know  that 
he  is  talking  nonsense."  BOSWELL:  "Is 
it  wrong  then,  sir,  to  affect  singularity,  in 
order  to  make  people  stare?"  JOHNSON: 
"Yes,  if  you  do  it  by  propagating  error; 
and,  indeed,  it  is  wrong  in  any  way. 
There  is  in  human  nature  a  general  incli- 
nation to  make  people  stare;  and  every 
wise  man  has  himself  to  cure  of  it,  and 
does  cure  himself.  If  you  wish  to  make 
people  stare  by  doing  better  than  others, 
why  make  them  stare  till  they  stare  their 
eyes  out.  But  consider  how  easy  it  is  to 
make  people  stare  by  being  absurd.  I 
may  do  it  by  going  into  a  drawing  room 
without  my  shoes.  You  remember  the 
gentleman  in  'The  Spectator,'  who  had 


a  commission  of  lunacy  taken  out  against 
him  for  his  extreme  singularity,  such  as 
never  wearing  a  wig,  but  a  night-cap. 
Now,  sir,  abstractedly,  the  night-cap  was 
best:  but,  relatively,  the  advantage  was 
overbalanced  by  his  making  the  boys 
run  after  him." 

Talking  of  a  London  life,  he  said,  "The 
happiness  of  London  is  not  to  be  conceived 
but  by  those  who  have  been  in  it.  I  will 
venture  to  say,  there  is  more  learning  and 
science  within  the  circumference  cif  ten 
miles  from  where  we  now  sit,  than  in  all 
the  rest  of  the  kingdom."  BOSWELL: 
"The  only  disadvantage  is  the  great  dis- 
tance at  which  people  live  from  one  an- 
other." JOHNSON:  "Yes  sir;  but  that 
is  occasioned  by  the  largeness  of  it,  which 
is  the  cause  of  all  the  other  advantages." 
BOSWELL:  "Sometimes  I  have  been  in 
the  humor  of  wishing  to  retire  to  a  desert." 
JOHNSON:  "Sir,  you  have  desert  enough 
in  Scotland." 

Although  I  had  promised  myself  a  great 
deal  of  instructive  conversation  with  him 
on  the  conduct  of  the  married  state,  of 
which  I  had  then  a  near  prospect,  he  did 
not  say  much  upon  that  topic.  Mr. 
Seward  heard  him  once  say,  that  "a  man 
has  a  very  bad  chance  for  happiness  in 
that  state,  unless  he  marries  a  woman  of 
very  strong  and  fixed  principles  of  reli- 
gion." He  maintained  to  me,  contrary 
to  the  common  notion,  that  a  woman 
would  not  be  the  worse  wife  for  being 
learned;  in  which,  from  all  that  I  have 
observed  of  Artemisias,  I  humbly  differed 
from  him. 

When  I  censured  a  gentleman  of  my 
acquaintance  for  marrying  a  second  time, 
as  it  showed  a  disregard  of  his  first  wife,  he 
said,  "Not  at  all,  sir.  On  the  contrary, 
were  he  not  to  marry  again,  it  might  be 
concluded  that  his  first  wife  had  given  him 
a  disgust  to  marriage;  but  by  taking  a 
second  wife  he  pays  the  highest  compli- 
ment to  the  first,  by  showing  that  she 
made  him  so  happy  as  a  married  man, 
that  he  wishes  to  be  so  a  second  time." 
So  ingenious  a  turn  did  he  give  to  this  deli- 
cate question.  And  yet,  on  another 
occasion,  he  owned  that  he  once  had  al- 


BIOGRAPHY 


335 


most  asked  a  promise  of  Mrs.  Johnson 
that  she  would  not  marry  again,  but  had 
checked  himself.  I  presume  that  her 
having  been  married  before  had,  at  times, 
given  him  some  uneasiness;  for  I  remem- 
ber his  observing  upon  the  marriage  of  one 
of  our  common  friends,  "He  has  done  a 
very  foolish  thing;  he  has  married  a  widow, 
when  he  might  have  had  a  maid." 

We  drank  tea  with  Mrs.  Williams.  I 
had  last  year  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mrs. 
Thrale  at  Dr.  Johnson's  one  morning,  and 
had  conversation  enough  with  her  to  ad- 
mire her  talents,  and  to  show  her  that  I 
was  as  Johnsonian  as  herself.  Dr.  John- 
son had  probably  been  kind  enough  to 
speak  well  of  me,  for  this  evening  he  de- 
livered me  a  very  polite  card  from  Mr. 
Thrale  and  her,  inviting  me  to  Streatham. 

On  the  6th  of  October  I  complied  with 
his  obliging  invitation,  and  found,  at  an 
elegant  villa,  six  miles  from  town,  every 
circumstance  that  can  make  society  pleas- 
ing. Johnson,  though  quite  at  home,  was 
yet  looked  up  to  with  an  awe,  tempered  by 
affection,  and  seemed  to  be  equally  the 
care  of  his  host  and  hostess.  I  rejoiced 
at  seeing  him  so  happy. 

He  played  off  his  wit  against  Scotland 
with  a  good-humored  pleasantry,  which 
gave  me,  though  no  bigot  to  national  prej- 
udices, an  opportunity  for  a  little  contest 
with  him.  I  having  said  that  England 
was  obliged  to  us  for  gardeners,  almost  all 
their  good  gardeners  being  Scotchmen — 
JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir,  that  is  because 
gardening  is  much  more  necessary  among 
you  than  with  us,  which  makes  so  many 
of  your  people  learn  it.  It  is  all  garden- 
ing with  you.  Things  which  grow  wild 
here,  must  be  cultivated  with  great 
care  in  Scotland.  Pray  now,"  throw- 
ing himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  laugh- 
ing, "are  you  ever  able  to  bring  the  sloe 
to  perfection?  " 

I  boasted  that  we  had  the  honor  of 
being  the  first  to  abolish  the  unhospitable, 
troublesome,  and  ungracious  custom  of 
giving  veils  to  servants .  JOHNSON :  "Sir, 
you  abolished  veils  because  you  were  too 
poor  to  be  able  to  give  them." 

Mrs.  Thrale  disputed  with  him  on  the 


merit  of  Prior.  He  attacked  him  power- 
fully; said  he  wrote  of  love  like  a  man  who 
had  never  felt  it:  his  love  verses  were  col- 
lege verses;  and  he  repeated  the  song 
"Alexis  shunn'd  his  fellow  swains,"  etc., 
in  so  ludicrous  a  manner,  as  to  make  us  all 
wonder  how  any  one  could  have  been 
pleased  with  such  fantastical  stuff.  Mrs. 
Thrale  stood  to  her  gun  with  great  courage 
in  defence  of  amorous  ditties,  which  John- 
son despised,  till  he  at  last  silenced  her  by 
saying,  "My  dear  lady,  talk  no  more  of 
this.  Nonsense  can  be  defended  but  by 
nonsense." 

Mrs.  Thrale  then  praised  Garrick's 
talents  for  light,  gay  poetry;  and,  as  a 
specimen,  repeated  his  song  hi  "Florizel 
and  Perdita,"  and  dwelt  with  peculiar 
pleasure  on  this  line: 

"I'd  smile  with  the  simple,  and  feed  with  the 
poor." 

JOHNSON:  "Nay,  my  dear  lady,  this  will 
never  do.  Poor  David!  Smile  with  the 
simple.  What  folly  is  that?  And  who 
would  feed  with  the  poor  that  can  help 
it?  No,  no;  let  me  smile  with  the  wise, 
and  feed  with  the  rich." 

Talking  of  history,  Johnson  said,  "We 
may  know  historical  facts  to  be  true,  as 
we  may  know  facts  hi  common  life  to  be 
true.  Motives  are  generally  unknown. 
We  cannot  trust  to  the  characters  we  find 
in  history,  unless  when  they  are  drawn 
by  those  who  knew  the  persons;  as  those, 
for  instance,  by  Sallust  and  by  Lord 
Clarendon." 

He  would  not  allow  much  merit  to  Whit- 
field's  oratory.  "His  popularity,  sir," 
said  he,  "is  chiefly  owing  to  the  peculiarity 
of  his  manner.  He  would  be  followed  by 
crowds  were  he  to  wear  a  night-cap  in  the 
pulpit,  or  were  he  to  preach  from  a  tree." 

I  know  not  from  what  spirit  of  con- 
tradiction he  burst  out  into  a  violent 
declamation  against  the  Corsicans,  of 
whose  heroism  I  talked  in  high  terms. 
"Sir,"  said  he,  "what  is  all  this  rout 
about  the  Corsicans?  They  have  been 
at  war  with  the  Genoese  for  upwards  of 
twenty  years,  and  have  never  yet  taken 


336 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


their  fortified  towns.  They  might  have 
battered  down  their  walls  and  reduced 
them  to  powder  in  twenty  years.  They 
might  have  pulled  the  walls  in  pieces,  and 
cracked  the  stones  with  their  teeth  in 
twenty  years."  It  was  in  vain  to  argue 
with  him  upon  the  want  of  artillery;  he 
was  not  to  be  resisted  for  the  moment. 

On  the  evening  of  October  roth,  I  pre- 
sented Dr.  Johnson  to  General  Paoli.  I 
had  greatly  wished  that  two  men,  for 
whom  I  had  the  highest  esteem,  should 
meet.  They  met  with  a  manly  ease, 
mutually  conscious  of  their  own  abilities, 
and  of  the  abilities  of  each  other.  The 
General  spoke  Italian,  and  Dr.  Johnson 
English,  and  understood  one  another  very 
well,  with  a  little  aid  of  interpretation 
from  me,  in  which  I  compared  myself  to 
'an  isthmus  which  joins  two  great  conti- 
'nents.  Upon  Johnson's  approach,  the 
General  said,  "From  what  I  have  read  of 
your  works,  sir,  and  from  what  Mr.  Bos- 
well  has  told  me  of  you,  I  have  long  held 
you  in  great  veneration."  The  General 
talked  of  languages  being  formed  on  the 
particular  notions  and  manners  of  a 
people,  without  knowing  which,  we  can- 
not know  the  language.  We  may  know 
the  direct  signification  of  single  words; 
but  by  these  no  beauty  of  expression,  no 
sally  of  genius,  no  wit  is  conveyed  to  the 
mind.  All  this  must  be  by  allusion  to 
other  ideas.  "Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "you 
talk  of  language,  as  if  you  had  never  done 
anything  else  but  study  it,  instead  of 
governing  a  nation."  The  General  said, 
"Questo  &  un  troppo  gran  complimento:" 
this  is  too  great  a  compliment.  Johnson 
answered,  "I  should  have  thought  so,  sir, 
if  I  had  not  heard  you  talk."  The  Gen- 
eral asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the 
spirit  of  infidelity  which  was  so  prevalent. 
JOHNSON:  "Sir,  this  gloom  of  infidelity, 
I  hope,  is  only  a  transient  cloud  passing 
through  the  hemisphere,  which  will  soon 
be  dissipated,  and  the  sun  break  forth 
with  his  usual  splendor."  "You  think 
then,"  said  the  General,  "that  they  will 
change  their  principles  like  their  clothes." 
JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir,  if  they  bestow  no 
more  thought  on  principles  than  on  dress, 


it  must  be  so."  The  General  said,  that 
"a  great  part  of  the  fashionable  infidelity 
was  owing  to  a  desire  of  showing  courage. 
Men  who  have  no  opportunity  of  showing 
it  as  to  things  in  this  life,  take  death  and 
futurity  as  objects  on  which  to  display  it." 
JOHNSON:  "That  is  mighty  foolish  affec- 
tation. Fear  is  one  of  the  passions  of 
human  nature,  of  which  it  is  impossible  to 
divest  it.  You  remember  that  the  Em- 
peror Charles  V.  when  he  read  upon  the 
tombstone  of  a  Spanish  nobleman,  'Here 
lies  one  who  never  knew  fear,'  wittily 
said,  'Then  he  never  snuffed  a  candle  with 
his  fingers.'" 

Dr.  Johnson  went  home  with  me,  and 
drank  tea  till  late  in  the  night.  He  said, 
"  General  Paoli  had  the  loftiest  port  of  any 
man  he  had  ever  seen."  He  denied  that 
military  men  were  always  the  best  bred 
men.  "Perfect  good  breeding,"  he  ob 
served,  "consists  in  having  no  particular 
mark  of  any  profession,  but  a  general  ele- 
gance of  manners;  whereas,  hi  a  military 
man,  you  can  commonly  distinguish  the 
brand  of  a  soldier,  I'homme  d'epee." 

Dr.  Johnson  shunned  to-night  any  dis- 
cussion of  the  perplexed  question  of  fate 
and  free  will,  which  I  attempted  to  agi- 
tate: "Sir,"  said  he,  "we  know  our  will 
is  free,  and  there's  an  end  on't." 

He  honored  me  with  his  company  at 
dinner  on  the  i6th  of  October,  at  my  lodg- 
ings in  Old  Bond-street  with  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  Mr.  Garrick,  Dr.  Goldsmith, 
Mr.  Murphy,  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  and  Mr. 
Thomas  Davies.  Garrick  played  round 
him  with  a  fond  vivacity,  taking  hold  of 
the  breasts  of  his  coat,  and,  looking  up  in 
his  face  with  a  lively  archness,  compli- 
mented him  on  the  good  health  which  he 
seemed  then  to  enjoy;  while  the  sage, 
shaking  his  head,  beheld  him  with  a  gentle 
complacency.  One  of  the  company  not 
being  come  at  the  appointed  hour,  I  pro- 
posed, as  usual  upon  such  occasions,  to 
order  dinner  to  be  served;  adding,  "Ought 
six  people  to  be  kept  waiting  for  one?" 
"Why,  yes,"  answered  Johnson,  with  a 
delicate  humanity,  "if  the  one  will  suffer 
more  by  your  sitting  down  than  the  six 
will  do  by  waiting."  Goldsmith,  to 


BIOGRAPHY 


337 


divert  the  tedious  minutes,  strutted  about 
bragging  of  his  dress,  and  I  believe  was 
seriously  vain  of  it,  for  his  mind  was  won- 
derfully prone  to  such  impressions. 
"Come,  come,"  said  Garrick,  "talk  no 
more  of  that.  You  are  perhaps  the 
worst — eh,  eh!"  Goldsmith  was  eagerly 
attempting  to  interrupt  him,  when  Gar- 
rick  went  on,  laughing  ironically,  "Nay, 
you  will  always  look  like  a  gentleman;  but 
I  am  talking  of  being  well  or  ill  drest." 
"Well,  let  me  tell  you,"  said  Goldsmith, 
"when  my  tailor  brought  home  my  bloom- 
colored  coat,  he  said,  'Sir,  I  have  a  favor 
to  beg  of  you.  When  anybody  asks  you 
who  made  your  clothes,  be  pleased  to 
mention  John  Filby,  at  the  Harrow,  in 
Water-lane.'"  JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir, 
that  was  because  he  knew  the  strange 
color  would  attract  crowds  to  gaze  at 
it,  and  thus  they  might  hear  of  him,  and 
see  how  well  he  could  make  a  coat  even 
of  so  absurd  a  color." 

After  dinner  our  conversation  first 
turned  upon  Pope.  Johnson  said,  his 
characters  of  men  were  admirably  drawn, 
those  of  women  not  so  well.  He  repeated 
to  us,  in  his  forcible  melodious  manner, 
the  concluding  lines  of  the  Dunciad. 
While  he  was  talking  loudly  in  praise  of 
those  lines,  one  of  the  company  ventured 
to  say,  "Too  fine  for  such  a  poem: — a 
poem  on  what?"  JOHNSON  (with  a  dis- 
dainful look) :  "Why,  on  dunces.  It  was 
worth  while  being  a  dunce  then.  Ah,  sir, 
hadst  thou  lived  in  those  days!  It  is  not 
worth  while  being  a  dunce  now,  when  there 
are  no  wits."  Bickerstaff  observed,  as  a 
peculiar  circumstance,  that  Pope's  fame 
was  higher  when  he  was  alive  than  it  was 
then.  Johnson  said,  his  Pastorals  were 
poor  things,  though  the  versification  was 
fine.  He  told  us,  with  high  satisfaction, 
the  anecdote  of  Pope's  inquiring  who  was 
the  author  of  his  "London,"  and  saying, 
he  will  be  soon  delerrt.  He  observed, 
that  hi  Dryden's  poetry  there  were  pas- 
sages drawn  from  a  profundity  which 
Pope  could  never  reach.  He  repeated 
some  fine  lines  on  love,  by  the  former 
(which  I  have  now  forgotten),  and  gave 
great  applause  to  the  character  of  Zimri. 


Goldsmith  said,  that  Pope's  character  of 
Addison  showed  a  deep  knowledge  of  the 
human  heart.  Johnson  said,  that  the 
description  of  the  temple,  in  "The  Mourn- 
ing Bride,"*  was  the  finest  poetical  passage 
he  had  ever  read;  he  recollected  none  in 
Shakespeare  equal  to  it. — "But,"  said 
Garrick,  all  alarmed  for  "the  God  of  his 
idolatry,"  "we  know  not  the  extent  and 
variety  of  his  powers.  We  are  to  suppose 
there  are  such  passages  hi  his  works. 
Shakespeare  must  not  suffer  from  the 
badness  of  our  memories."  Johnson, 
diverted  by  this  enthusiastic  jealousy, 
went  on  with  great  ardor:  "No,  sir;  Con- 
greve  has  nature;"  (smiling  on  the  tragic 
eagerness  of  Garrick) ;  but  composing  him- 
self, he  added,  "Sir,  this  is  not  comparing 
Congreve  on  the  whole  with  Shakespeare 
on  the  whole;  but  only  maintaining  that 
Congreve  has  one  finer  passage  than  any 
that  can  be  found  in  Shakespeare.  Sir,  a 
man  may  have  no  more  than  ten  guineas 
in  the  world,  but  he  may  have  those  ten 
guineas  in  one  piece;  and  so  may  have  a 
finer  piece  than  a  man  who  has  ten  thou- 
sand pounds:  but  then  he  has  only  one  ten- 
guinea  piece. — What  I  mean  is,  that  you 
can  show  me  no  passage,  where  there  is 
simply  a  description  of  material  objects, 
without  any  intermixture  of  moral  no- 
tions, which  produces  such  an  effect." 
Mr.  Murphy  mentioned  Shakespeare's 
description  of  the  night  before  the  battle 
of  Agincourt;  but  it  was  observed  it  had 
men  in  it.  Mr.  Davies  suggested  the 
speech  of  Juliet,  in  which  she  figures  her- 
self awaking  in  the  tomb  of  her  ancestors. 
Some  one  mentioned  the  description  of 
Dover  Cliff.  JOHNSON:  "No,  sir;  it 
should  be  all  precipice — all  vacuum. 
The  crows  impede  your  fall.  The  dimin- 
ished appearance  of  the  boats,  and  other 
circumstances,  are  all  very  good  descrip- 
tion; but  do  not  impress  the  mind  at  once 
with  the  horrible  idea  of  immense  height. 
The  impression  is  divided;  you  pass  on  by 

*Act.,  «c.  3. 

"How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 
Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads, 
To  bear  aloft  its  arch'd  and  pond'rous  roof, 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immovable. 
Looking  tranquillity!    It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight." 


338 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


computation,  from  one  stage  of  the  tre- 
mendous space  to  another.  Had  the  girl 
in  'The  Mourning  Bride'  said,  she  could 
not  cast  her  shoe  to  the  top  of  one  of  the 
pillars  hi  the  temple,  it  would  not  have 
aided  the  idea,  but  weakened  it." 

Mrs.  Montague,  a  lady  distinguished 
for  having  written  an  Essay  on  Shake- 
speare, being  mentioned — REYNOLDS  :  "  I 
think  that  essay  does  her  honor."  JOHN- 
SON: "Yes,  sir;  it  does  her  honor,  but  it 
would  do  nobody  else  honor.  I  have, 
indeed,  not  read  it  all.  But  when  I  take 
up  the  end  of  a  web,  and  find  it  packthread, 
I  do  not  expect,  by  looking  further,  to  find 
embroidery.  Sir,  I  will  venture  to  say, 
there  is  not  one  sentence  of  true  criticism 
in  her  book."  GARRICK:  "But,  sir, 
surely  it  shows  how  much  Voltaire  has  mis- 
taken Shakespeare,  which  nobody  else  has 
done."  JOHNSON:  "Sir,  nobody  else  has 
thought  it  worth  while.  And  what  merit  is 
there  in  that?  You  may  as  well  praise  a 
schoolmaster  for  whipping  a  boy  who  has 
construed  ill.  No,  sir,  there  is  no  real  crit- 
icism in  it:  none  showing  the  beauty  of 
thought,  as  formed  on  the  workings  of  the 
human  heart." 

Johnson  proceeded:  "The  Scotchman 
has  taken  the  right  method  in  his  'Ele- 
ments of  Criticism.'  I  do  not  mean  that 
he  has  taught  us  anything;  but  he  has 
told  us  old  things  in  a  new  way."  MUR- 
PHY: "He  seems  to  have  read  a  great 
deal  of  French  criticism,  and  wants  to 
make  it  his  own;  as  if  he  had  been  for 
years  anatomizing  the  heart  of  man,  and 
peeping  into  every  cranny  of  it."  GOLD- 
SMITH: "It  is  easier  to  write  that  book 
than  to  read  it."  JOHNSON:  "We  have 
an  example  of  true  criticism  in  Burke's 
'Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful;' 
and,  if  I  recollect,  there  is  also  Du  Bos; 
and  Bouhours,  who  shows  all  beauty  to  de- 
pend on  truth.  There  is  no  great  merit 
in  telling  how  many  plays  have  ghosts  in 
them  and  how  this  ghost  is  better  than 
that.  You  must  show  how  terror  is  im- 
pressed on  the  human  heart. — In  the 
description  of  night  in  Macbeth,  the  beetle 
and  the  bat  detract  from  the  general  idea 
of  darkness, — inspissated  gloom." 


Politics  being  mentioned,  he  said,  "This 
petitioning  is  a  new  mode  of  distressing 
government,  and  a  mighty  easy  one.  I 
will  undertake  to  get  petitions  either 
against  quarter  guineas  or  half  guineas, 
with  the  help  of  a  little  hot  wine.  Therb 
must  be  no  yielding  to  encourage  this. 
The  object  is  not  important  enough.  We 
are  not  to  blow  up  half  a  dozen  palaces, 
because  one  cottage  is  burning." 

The  conversation  then  took  another 
turn.  JOHNSON:  "  The  ballad  of  Hardy- 
knute  has  no  great  merit,  if  it  be  really 
ancient.  People  talk  of  nature.  But 
mere  obvious  nature  may  be  exhibited  with 
very  little  power  of  mind." 

On  Thursday,  October  19,  I  passed  the 
evening  with  him  at  his  house.  He  ad- 
vised me  to  complete  a  Dictionary  of 
words  peculiar  to  Scotland,  of  which  I 
showed  him  a  specimen.  "Sir,"  said  he, 
"Ray  has  made  a  collection  of  north 
country  words.  By  collecting  those  of 
your  country,  you  will  do  a  useful  thing 
towards  the  history  of  the  language."  He 
bade  me  also  go  on  with  collections  which 
I  was  making  upon  the  antiquities  of 
Scotland.  "Make  a  large  book — a  folio." 
BOSWELL:  "But  of  what  use  will  it  be, 
sir?"  JOHNSON:  "Never  mind  the  use, 
do  it." 

I  complained  that  he  had  not  mentioned 
Garrick  hi  his  Preface  to  Shakespeare:  and 
asked  him  if  he  did  not  admire  him. 
JOHNSON:  "Yes,  as  'a  poor  player,  who 
frets  and  struts  his  hours  upon  the  stage  — 
as  a  shadow."  BOSWELL:  "But  has  he 
not  brought  Shakespeare  into  notice?" 
JOHNSON:  "Sir,  to  allow  that,  would  be 
to  lampoon  the  age.  Many  of  Shake- 
speare's plays  are  the  worse  for  being 
acted:  Macbeth,  for  instance."  BOS- 
WELL: "What,  sir!  is  nothing  gained  by 
decoration  and  action?  Indeed,  I  do  wish 
that  you  had  mentioned  Garrick."  JOHN- 
SON: "My  dear  sir,  had  I  mentioned 
hmi,  I  must  have  mentioned  many  more: 
Mrs.  Pritchard,  Mrs.  Gibber, — nay,  and 
Mr.  Gibber  too:  he,  too,  altered  Shake- 
speare." BOSWELL:  "  You  have  read  his 
apology,  sir?"  JOHNSON:  "Yes,  it  is 
very  entertaining.  But  as  for  Gibber  him- 


BIOGRAPHY 


339 


self,  taking  from  his  conversation  all  that 
he  ought  not  to  have  said,  he  was  a  poor 
creature.  I  remember  when  he  brought 
me  one  of  his  Odes  to  have  my  opinion  of 
it,  I  could  not  bear  such  nonsense,  and 
would  not  let  him  read  it  to  the  end:  so 
little  respect  had  I  for  that  great  man! 
(laughing).  Yet  I  remember  Richardson 
wondering  that  I  could  treat  him  with 
familiarity." 

I  mentioned  to  him  that  I  had  seen  the  ex- 
ecution of  several  convicts  at  Tyburn,  two 
days  before,  and  that  none  of  them  seemed 
to  be  under  any  concern.  JOHNSON: 
"  Most  of  them,  sir,  have  never  thought  at 
all."  BOSWELL:  " But  is  not  the  fear  of 
death  natural  to  man? "  JOHNSON:  "So 
much  so,  sir,  that  the  whole  of  life  is  but 
keeping  away  the  thoughts  of  it."  He 
then,  in  a  low  and  earnest  tone,  talked  of 
his  meditating  upon  the  awful  hour  of  his 
own  dissolution,  and  in  what  manner  he 
should  conduct  himself  upon  that  occasion: 
"I  know  not,"  said  he,  "whether  I  wish 
to  have  a  friend  by  me,  or  have  it  all  be- 
tween God  and  myself."  Talking  of  our 
feeling  for  the  distresses  of  others — JOHN- 
SON: "Why,  sir,  there  is  much  noise 
made  about  it,  but  it  is  greatly  exag- 
gerated. No,  sir,  we  have  a  certain  de- 
gree of  feeling  to  prompt  us  to  do  good; 
more  than  that,  providence  does  not  in- 
tend. It  would  be  misery  to  no  purpose." 
BOSWELL:  "But  suppose  now,  sir,  that 
one  of  your  intimate  friends  were  appre- 
hended for  an  offence  for  which  he  might 
be  hanged."  JOHNSON:  "I  should  do 
what  I  could  to  bail  him,  and  give  him 
any  other  assistance;  but  if  he  were  once 
fairly  hanged,  I  should  not  suffer."  BOS- 
WELL: "Would  you  eat  your  dinner  that 
day,  sir?"  JOHNSON:  "Yes,  sir,  and 
eat  it  as  if  he  were  eating  with  me.  Why, 
there's  Baretti,  who  is  to  be  tried  for  his 
life  to-morrow:  friends  have  risen  up  for 
hun  on  every  side:  yet  if  he  should  be 
hanged,  none  of  them  will  eat  a  slice  of 
plum  pudding  the  less.  Sir,  that  sym- 
pathetic feeling  goes  a  very  little  way  in 
depressing  the  mind." 

I  told  hun  that  I  had  dined  lately  at 
Foote's,  who  showed  me  a  letter  which 


he  had  received  from  Tom  Davies,  telling 
hun  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  sleep 
from  the  concern  he  felt  on  account  of 
"this  sad  affair  of  Baretti"  begging  of  him 
to  try  if  he  could  suggest  any  thing  that 
might  be  of  service;  and,  at  the  same  time, 
recommending  to  him  an  industrious 
young  man  who  kept  a  pickle  shop. 
JOHNSON:  "Ay,  sir,  here  you  have  a 
specimen  of  human  sympathy:  a  friend 
hanged,  and  a  cucumber  pickled.  We 
know  not  whether  Baretti  or  the  pickle- 
man  has  kept  Davies  from  sleep:  nor  does 
he  know  himself.  And  as  to  his  not  sleep- 
ing, sir,  Tom  Davies  is  a  very  great  man; 
Tom  has  been  upon  the  stage,  and  knows 
how  to  do  those  things:  I  have  not  been 
upon  the  stage,  and  cannot  do  those 
things."  BOSWELL:  "I  have  often 
blamed  myself,  sir,  for  not  feeling  for 
others  as  sensibly  as  many  say  they  do." 
JOHNSON:  "Sir,  don't  be  duped  by  them 
any  more.  You  will  find  those  very  feel- 
ing people  are  not  very  ready  to  do  you 
good.  They  pay  you  by  feeling." 

BOSWELL:  "Foote  has  a  great  deal  of 
humor."  JOHNSON:  "Yes,  sir."  BOS- 
WELL: "He  has  a  singular  talent  of  ex- 
hibiting character."  JOHNSON:  "Sir,  it 
is  not  a  talent — it  is  a  vice:  it  is  what 
others  abstain  from.  It  is  not  comedy, 
which  exhibits  the  character  of  a  species, 
as  that  of  a  miser  gathered  from  many 
misers:  it  is  farce,  which  exhibits  indi- 
viduals." BOSWELL:  "Did  not  he  think 
of  exhibiting  you,  sir?  "  JOHNSON  :  "  Sir, 
fear  restrained  him;  he  knew  I  would  have 
broken  his  bones.  I  would  have  saved 
him  the  trouble  of  cutting  off  a  leg;  I 
would  not  have  left  him  a  leg  to  cut  off." 
BOSWELL:  "Pray,  sir,  is  not  Foote  an 
infidel?"  JOHNSON:  "I  do  not  know, 
sir,  that  the  fellow  is  an  infidel;  but  if  he 
be  an  infidel,  he  is  an  infidel  as  a  dog  is  an 
infidel;  that  is  to  say,  he  has  never  thought 
upon  the  subject."  BOSWELL:  "I  sup- 
pose, sir,  he  has  thought  superficially,  and 
seized  the  first  notion  which  occurred  to 
his  mind."  JOHNSON:  "Why  then,  sir, 
still  he  is  like  a  dog,  that  snatches  the  piece 
next  him.  Did  you  never  observe  that 
dogs  have  not  the  power  of  comparing? 


340 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


A  dog  will  take  a  small  bit  of  meat  as 
readily  as  a  large,  when  both  are  before 
him." 

He  again  talked  of  the  passage  in  Con- 
greve  with  high  commendation,  and  said, 
"Shakespeare  never  has  six  lines  together 
without  a  fault.  Perhaps  you  may  find 
seven;  but  this  does  not  refute  my  gen- 
eral assertion.  If  I  come  to  an  orchard 
and  say  there's  no  fruit  here,  and  then 
comes  a  poring  man,  who  finds  two  apples 
and  pears,  and  tells  me,  'Sir,  you  are  mis- 
taken, I  have  found  both  apples  and 
pears,'  I  should  laugh  at  him:  what  would 
that  be  to  the  purpose?  " 

Next  day,  October  20,  he  appeared  for 
the  only  time  I  suppose  in  his  life,  as  a 
witness  in  a  court  of  justice,  being  called 
to  give  evidence  to  the  character  of  Mr. 
Baretti,  who  having  stabbed  a  man  in  the 
street,  was  arraigned  at  the  Old  Bailey 
for  murder.  Never  did  such  a  constella- 
tion of  genius  enlighten  the  awful  Sessions- 
house,  emphatically  called  Justice-hall: 
Mr.  Burke,  Mr.  Garrick,  Mr.  Beauclerk, 
and  Dr.  Johnson;  and  undoubtedly  their 
favorable  testimony  had  due  weight  with 
the  court  and  Jury.  Johnson  gave  his 
evidence  in  a  slow,  deliberate,  and  distinct 
manner,  which  was  uncommonly  impres- 
sive. It  is  well  known  that  Mr.  Baretti 
was  acquitted. 

On  the  26th  of  October,  we  dined  to- 
gether at  the  Mitre  Tavern.  Talking  of 
trade,  he  observed,  "It  is  a  mistaken 
notion  that  a  vast  deal  of  money  is  brought 
into  a  nation  by  trade.  It  is  not  so. 
Commodities  come  from  commodities; 
but  trade  produces  no  capital  accession 
of  wealth.  However,  though  there  should 
be  little  profit  in  money,  there  is  a  con- 
siderable profit  in  pleasure,  as  it  gives  to 
one  nation  the  productions  of  another; 
as  we  have  wines  and  fruits  and  many 
other  foreign  articles  brought  to  us." 
BOSWELL:  "  Yes,  sir,  and  there  is  a  profit 
in  pleasure,  by  its  furnishing  occupation  to 
such  numbers  of  mankind."  JOHNSON: 
"Why,  sir,  you  cannot  call  that  pleasure 
to  which  all  are  averse,  and  which  none 
begin  but  with  the  hope  of  leaving  off; 
a  thing  which  men  dislike  before  they  have 


tried  it,  and  when  they  have  tried  it." 
BOSWELL:  "But,  sir,  the  mind  must  be 
employed,  and  we  grow  weary  when  idle." 
JOHNSON:  "That  is,  sir,  because  others 
being  busy,  we  want  company;  but  if  we 
were  all  idle,  there  would  be  no  growing 
weary;  we  should  all  entertain  one  another. 
There  is,  indeed,  this  in  trade: — it  gives 
men  an  opportunity  of  improving  their 
situation.  If  there  were  no  trade,  many 
who  are  poor  would  always  remain  poor. 
But  no  man  loves  labor  for  itself."  BOS- 
WELL: "Yes,  sir,  I  know  a  person  who 
does.  He  is  a  very  laborious  judge,  and  he 
loves  the  labor."  JOHNSON:  "Sir,  that 
is  because  he  loves  respect  and  distinc- 
tion. Could  he  have  them  without  labor, 
he  would  like  it  less."  BOSWELL:  "He 
tells  me  he  likes  it  for  itself."— "Why, 
sir,  he  fancies  so,  because  he  is  not  accus- 
tomed to  abstract." 

We  went  home  to  his  house  to  tea. 
Mrs.  Williams  made  it  with  sufficient 
dexterity,  notwithstanding  her  blindness, 
though  her  manner  of  satisfying  herself 
that  the  cups  were  full  enough  appeared 
to  me  a  little  awkward;  for  I  fancied  she 
put  her  finger  down  a  certain  way,  till 
she  felt  the  tea  touch  it.*  In  my  first 
elation  at  being  allowed  the  privilege  of 
attending  Dr.  Johnson  at  his  late  visits  to 
this  lady,  which  was  like  being  e  secre- 
tioribus  consiliis,  I  willingly  drank  cup 
after  cup,  as  if  it  had  been  the  Heliconian 
spring.  But  as  the  charm  of  novelty 
went  off,  I  grew  more  fastidious;  and  be- 
sides, I  discovered  that  she  was  of  a  peev- 
ish temper. 

There  was  a  pretty  large  circle  this  even- 
ing. Dr.  Johnson  was  in  very  good 
humor,  lively,  and  ready  to  talk  upon  all 
subjects.  Dominicetti  being  mentioned, 
he  would  not  allow  him  any  merit. 
"There  is  nothing  in  all  this  boasted  sys- 
tem. No,  sir;  medicated  baths  can  be  no 
better  than  warm  water;  their  only  effect 
can  be  that  of  tepid  moisture."  One  of 
the  company  took  the  other  side,  main- 


BIOGRAPHY 


34i 


taining  that  medicines  of  various  sorts, 
and  some  too  of  most  powerful  effect, 
are  introduced  into  the  human  frame  by 
the  medium  of  the  pores;  and,  therefore, 
when  warm  water  is  impregnated  with 
salutiferous  substances,  it  may  produce 
great  effects  as  a  bath.  This  appeared  to 
me  very  satisfactory.  Johnson  did  not 
answer  it;  but  talking  ior  victory,  and 
determined  to  be  master  of  the  field,  he 
had  recourse  to  the  device  which  Gold- 
smith imputed  to  him  in  the  witty  words 
of  one  of  Gibber's  comedies:  "There  is 
no  arguing  with  Johnson;  for  when  his 
pistol  misses  fire,  he  knocks  you  down 
with  the  butt-end  of  it."  He  turned  to 
the  gentlemen,  "Well,  sir,  go  to  Domi- 
nicetti,  and  get  thyself  fumigated;  but  be 
sure  that  the  steam  be  directed  to  thy 
head,  for  that  is  the  peccant  part."  This 
produced  a  triumphant  roar  of  laughter 
from  the  motley  assembly  of  philosophers, 
printers,  and  dependents,  male  and  fe- 
male. 

BOSWELL:  "Do  you  think,  sir,  that 
what,  is  called  natural  affection  is  born 
with  us?  It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  effect 
of  habit,  or  of  gratitude  for  kindness. 
No  child  has  it  for  a  parent  whom  it  has 
not  seen."  JOHNSON:  "  Why,  sir,  I  think 
there  is  an  instinctive  natural  affection 
in  parents  towards  their  children." 

Russia  being  mentioned  as  likely  to 
become  a  great  empire,  by  the  rapid 
increaseof  population : — JOHNSON :  "  Why, 
sir,  I  see  no  prospect  of  their  propagating 
more.  They  can  have  no  more  children 
than  they  can  get.  I  know  of  no  way  to 
make  them  breed  more  than  they  do. 
It  is  not  from  reason  and  prudence  that 
people  marry,  but  from  inclination.  A 
man  is  poor:  he  thinks,  'I  cannot  be 
worse,  and  so  I'll  e'en  take  Peggy.'" 
BOSWELL:  "But  have  not  nations  been 
more  populous  at  one  period  than  an- 
other?" JOHNSON:  "Yes,  sir,  but  that 
has  been  owing  to  the  people  being  less 
thinned  at  one  period  than  another, 
whether  by  emigrations,  war,  or  pesti- 
lence, not  by  their  being  more  or  less 
prolific.  Births  at  all  times  beaff  the 
same  proportion  to  the  same  number  of 


people."  BOSWELL:  "But  to  consider 
the  state  of  our  own  country:  does  not 
throwing  a  number  of  farms  into  one  hand 
hurt  population?"  JOHNSON:  "Why 
no,  sir;  the  same  quantity  of  food  being 
produced,  will  be  consumed  by  the  same 
numbers  of  mouths,  though  the  people 
may  be  disposed  of  in  different  ways. 
We  see,  if  corn  be  dear  and  butchers'  meat 
cheap,  the  farmers  all  apply  themselves 
to  the  raising  of  corn,  till  it  becomes  plen- 
tiful and  cheap,  and  then  butchers'  meat 
becomes  dear;  so  that  an  equality  is 
always  preserved,  No,  sir,  let  fanciful 
men  do  as  they  will,  depend  upon  it,  it  is 
difficult  to  disturb  the  system  of  life." 
BOSWELL:  "  But,  sir,  is  it  not  a  very  bad 
thing  for  landlords  to  oppress  their  tenants, 
by  raising  their  rents?"  JOHNSON: 
"Very  bad.  But,  sir,  it  can  never  have 
any  general  influence;  it  may  distress  some 
individuals.  For,  consider  this:  land- 
lords cannot  do  without  tenants.  Now, 
tenants  will  not  give  more  for  land  than 
land  is  worth.  If  they  can  make  more  of 
their  money  by  keeping  a  shop,  or  any 
other  way,  they'll  do  it,  and  so  oblige 
landlords  to  let  lands  come  back  to  a 
reasonable  rent,  in  order  that  they  may 
get  tenants.  Land  in  England  is  an 
article  of  commerce.  A  tenant  who  pays 
his  landlord  his  rent,  thinks  himself  no 
more  obliged  to  him  than  you  think  your- 
self obliged  to  a  man  in  whose  shop  you 
buy  a  piece  of  goods.  He  knows  the  land- 
lord does  not  let  him  have  his  land  for  less 
than  he  can  get  from  others,  in  the  same 
manner  as  the  shopkeeper  sells  his  goods. 
No  shopkeeper  sells  a  yard  of  ribbon  for 
sixpence  when  sevenpence  is  the  current 
price."  BOSWELL:  "But,  sir,  is  it  not 
better  that  tenants  should  be  dependent 
on  landlords?"  JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir,  as 
there  are  many  more  tenants  than  land- 
lords, perhaps,  strictly  speaking,  we  should 
wish  not.  But  if  you  please  you  may  let 
your  lands  cheap,  and  so  get  the  value, 
part  hi  money  and  part  in  homage. 
I  should  agree  with  you  in  that." 
BOSWELL:  "So,  sir,  you  laugh  at 
schemes  of  political  improvement." 
JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir,  most  schemes  of 


342 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


political  improvement  are  very  laughable 
things." 

He  observed,  "Providence  has  wisely 
ordered  that  the  more  numerous  men  are, 
the  more  difficult  it  is  for  them  to  agree 
in  anything,  and  so  they  are  governed. 
There  is  no  doubt,  that  if  the  poor  should 
reason,  'We'll  be  the  poor  no  longer,  we'll 
make  the  rich  take  their  turn,'  they  could 
easily  do  it,  were  it  not  that  they  can't 
agree.  So  the  common  soldiers,  though 
so  much  more  numerous  than  their  officers, 
are  governed  by  them  for  the  same 
reason." 

He  said,  "Mankind  have  a  strong  at- 
tachment to  the  habitations  to  which 
they  have  been  accustomed.  You  see 
the  inhabitants  of  Norway  do  not  with 
one  consent  quit  it,  and  go  to  some  part 
of  America,  where  there  is  a  mild  climate, 
and  where  they  may  have  the  same  pro- 
duce from  land,  with  the  tenth  part  of  the 
labor.  No,  sir;  their  affection  for  their 
old  dwellings,  and  the  terror  of  a  general 
change,  keep  them  at  home.  Thus,  we 
see  many  of  the  finest  spots  in  the  world 
thinly  inhabited,  and  many  rugged  spots 
well  inhabited." 

I  had  hired  a  Bohemian  as  my  servant 
while  I  remained  in  London,  and  being 
much  pleased  with  him,  I  asked  Dr. 
Johnson  whether  his  being  a  Roman 
Catholic  should  prevent  my  taking  him 
with  me  to  Scotland."  JOHNSON:  "  Why 
no,  sir.  If  he  has  no  objection,  you  can 
have  none."  BOSWELL:  "So,  sir,  you 
are  no  great  enemy  to  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic religion."  JOHNSON:  "No  more,  sir, 
than  to  the  Presbyterian  religion."  BOS- 
WELL:  "You  are  joking."  JOHNSON: 
"No,  sir,  I  really  think  so.  Nay,  sir,  of 
the  two,  I  prefer  the  Popish."  BOSWELL: 
"How  so,  sir?"  JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir, 
the  Presbyterians  have  no  church,  no 
apostolical  ordination. ' '  BOSWELL  :  ' '  And 
do  you  think  that  absolutely  essen- 
tial, sir?"  JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir,  as  it 
was  an  apostolical  institution,  I  think  it  is 
dangerous  to  be  without  it.  And,  sir,  the 
Presbyterians  have  no  public  worship: 
they  have  no  form  of  prayer  hi  which  they 
know  they  are  to  join.  They  go  to  hear 


a  man  pray,  and  are  to  judge  whether 
they  will  join  with  him."  BOSWELL: 
"But,  sir,  their  doctrine  is  the  same  with 
that  of  the  Church  of  England.  Their 
confession  of  faith,  and  the  thirty-nine 
articles,  contain  the  same  points,  even  the 
doctrine  of  predestination."  JOHNSON: 
"Why  yes,  sir;  predestination  was  a  part 
of  the  clamor  of  the  times,  so  it  is  men- 
tioned in  our  articles,  but  with  as  little 
positiveness  as  could  be."  BOSWELL: 
"Is  it  necessary,  sir,  to  believe  all  the 
thirty-nine  articles?"  JOHNSON:  "Why 
sir,  that  is  a  question  which  has  been  much 
agitated.  Some  have  thought  it  neces- 
sary that  they  should  all  be  believed; 
others  have  considered  them  to  be  only 
articles  of  peace;  that  is  to  say,  you  arc 
not  to  preach  against  them."  I  pro- 
ceeded: "What  do  you  think,  sir,  of  pur- 
gatory, as  believed  by  the  Roman  Cath- 
olics?" JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir,  it  is  a 
very  harmless  doctrine.  They  are  of 
opinion  that  the  generality  of  mankind 
are  neither  so  obstinately  wicked  as  to 
deserve  everlasting  punishment,  nor  so 
good  as  to  merit  being  admitted  into  the 
society  of  blessed  spirits;  and  therefore 
that  God  is  graciously  pleased  to  allow  of 
a  middle  state,  where  they  may  be  purified 
by  certain  degrees  of  suffering.  You  see, 
sir,  there  is  nothing  unreasonable  in 
this."  BOSWELL:  "But  then,  sir,  their 
masses  for  the  dead?"  JOHNSON:  "Why, 
sir,  if  it  be  once  established  that  there 
are  souls  in  purgatory,  it  is  as  proper  to 
pray  for  them,  as  for  our  brethren  of 
mankind  who  are  yet  in  this  life."  BOS- 
WELL: "The  Idolatry  of  the  Mass?" 
JOHNSON:  "Sir,  there  is  no  idolatry  in 
the  Mass.  They  believe  God  to  be  there, 
and  they  adore  him."  BOSWELL:  "The 
worship  of  Saints?"  JOHNSON:  "Sir, 
they  do  not  worship  Saints;  they  invoke 
them:  they  only  ask  their  prayers.  I  am 
talking  aU  this  time  of  the  doctrines  cf 
the  Church  of  Rome.  I  grant  you  that, 
in  practice,  purgatory  is  made  a  lucrative 
imposition,  and  that  people  do  become 
idolatrous  as  they  recommend  them- 
selves to  the  tutelary  protection  of  partic- 
ular saints.  I  think  their  giving  the 


BIOGRAPHY 


343 


sacrament  only  in  one  kind  is  criminal, 
because  it  is  contrary  to  the  express 
institution  of  CHRIST,  and  I  wonder  how 
the  Council  of  Trent  admitted  it." 
BOSWELL:  "Confession?"  JOHNSON: 
"Why,  I  don't  know  but  that  is  a  good 
thing.  The  Scripture  says,  'Confess  your 
faults  one  to  another,'  and  the  priests 
confess  as  well  as  the  laity.  Then  it  must 
be  considered  that  their  absolution  is  only 
upon  repentance,  and  often  upon  penance 
also.  You  think  your  sins  may  be  for- 
given without  penance,  upon  repentance 
alone." 

I  thus  ventured  to  mention  all  the  com- 
mon objections  against  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic Church,  that  I  might  hear  so  great  a 
man  upon  them.  What  he  said  is  here 
accurately  recorded.  But  it  is  not  im- 
probable that  if  one  had  taken  the  other 
side,  he  might  have  reasoned  differently. 

When  we  were  alone,  I  introduced  the 
subject  of  death,  and  endeavored  to 
maintain  that  the  fear  of  it  might  be  got 
over.  I  told  him  that  David  Hume  said 
to  me,  he  was  no  more  uneasy  to  think  he 
should  not  be  after  his  life,  than  that  he  had 
not  been  before  he  began  to  exist.  JOHNSON: 
"Sir,  if  he  really  trunks  so,  his  perceptions 
are  disturbed;  he  is  mad.  If  he  does  not 
think  so,  he  lies.  He  may  tell  you  he  holds 
his  finger  in  the  flame  of  a  candle,  without 
feeling  pain;  would  you  believe  him? 
When  he  dies,  he  at  least  gives  up  all  he 
has."  BOSWELL:  "Foote,  sir,  told  me, 
that  when  he  was  very  ill  he  was  not 
afraid  to  die."  JOHNSON:  "It  is  not 
true,  sir.  Hold  a  pistol  to  Foote's  breast, 
or  to  Hume's  breast,  and  threaten  to  kill 
them,  and  you'll  see  how  they  behave." 
BOSWELL:  "But  may  we  not  fortify 
our  minds  for  the  approach  of  death?" — 
Here  I  am  sensible  I  was  in  the  wrong,  to 
bring  before  his  view  what  he  ever  looked 
upon  with  horror;  for  although  when 
in  a  celestial  frame  of  mind  in  his  "Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes,"  he  has  supposed 
death  to  be  "kind  Nature's  signal  for 
retreat,"  from  this  state  of  being  to  "a 
happier  seat,"  his  thoughts  upon  this  awful 
change  were  in  general  full  of  dismal  ap- 
prehensions. To  my  questions  he  answered 


in  a  passion,  "No  sir,  let  it  alone.  It 
matters  not  how  a  man  dies,  but  how  he 
lives.  The  act  of  dying  is  not  of  import- 
ance, it  lasts  so  short  a  tune."  He  added 
(with  an  earnest  look),  "A  man  knows  it 
must  be  so,  and  submits.  It  will  do  him 
no  good  to  whine." 

I  attempted  to  continue  the  conversa- 
tion. He  was  so  provoked  that  he  said: 
"Give  us  no  more  of  this:"  and  was 
thrown  into  such  a  state  of  agitation  that 
he  expressed  himself  in  a  way  that  alarmed 
and  distressed  me;  showed  an  impatience 
that  I  should  leave  him,  and  when  I  was 
going  away,  called  to  me  sternly,  "Don't 
let  us  meet  to-morrow." 

I  went  home  exceedingly  uneasy.  All 
the  harsh  observations  which  I  had  ever 
heard  made  upon  his  character  crowded 
into  my  mind:  and  I  seemed  to  myself 
like  the  man  who  had  put  his  head  into 
the  lion's  mouth  a  great  many  tunes  with 
perfect  safety,  but  at  last  had  it  bit  off. 

Next  morning  I  sent  him  a  note,  stating 
that  I  might  have  been  in  the  wrong, 
but  it  was  not  intentionally;  he  was  there- 
fore, I  could  not  help  thinking,  too  severe 
upon  me.  That,  notwithstanding  our 
agreement  not  to  meet  that  day,  I  would 
call  on  him  in  my  way  to  the  city,  and 
stay  five  minutes  by  my  watch.  "You 
are,"  said  I,  "hi  my  mind,  since  last 
night,  surrounded  with  cloud  and  storm. 
Let  me  have  a  glimpse  of  sunshine,  and  go 
about  my  affairs  in  serenity  and  cheer- 
fulness." 

Upon  entering  his  study,  I  was  glad 
that  he  was  not  alone,  which  would  have 
made  our  meeting  more  awkward.  I  There 
were  with  him  Mr.Steevens  and  Mr.Tyers, 
both  of  whom  I  now  saw  for  the  first 
time.  My  note  had,  on  his  own  reflec- 
tion, softened  him,  for  he  received  me 
very  complacently;  so  that  I  unexpectedly 
found  myself  at  ease,  and  joined  in  the 
conversation. 

Johnson  spoke  unfavorably  of  a  certain 
pretty  voluminous  author,  saying,  "He 
used  to  write  anonymous  books,  and  then 
other  books  commending  those  books,  in 
which  there  was  something  of  rascality." 

I  whispered  him,  "Well,  sir,  you  are, 


$44 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


now  in  good  humor."  JOHNSON:  "Yes, 
sir."  I  was  going  to  leave  him,  and  had 
got  as  far  as  the  staircase.  He  stopped 
me,  and  smiling,  said,  "  Get  you  gone  in:" 
a  curious  mode  of  inviting  me  to  stay, 
which  I  accordingly  did  for  some  tune 
longer. 

This  little  incidental  quarrel  and  recon- 
ciliation, which,  perhaps,  I  may  be  thought 
to  have  detailed  too  minutely,  must  be 
esteemed  as  one  of  many  proofs  which  his 
friends  had,  that  though  he  might  be 
charged  with  bad  humor  at  times,  he  was 
always  a  good-natured  man;  and  I  have 
heard  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  a  nice  and  deli- 
cate observer  of  manners,  particularly 
remark,  that  when  upon  any  occasion 
Johnson  had  been  rough  to  any  person  in 
rompany,  he  took  the  first  opportunity  of 
reconciliation,  by  drinking  to  him,  or 
addressing  his  discourse  to  him;  but  if 
he  found  his  dignified  indirect  overtures 
sullenly  neglected,  he  was  quite  indifferent, 
and  considered  himself  as  having  done 
all  that  he  ought  to  do,  and  the  other  as 
now  in  the  wrong. 

Being  to  set  out  for  Scotland  on  the 
xoth  of  November,  I  wrote  to  him  at 
Streatham,  begging  that  he  would  meet 
me  in  town  on  the  pth:  but  if  this  should  be 
very  inconvenient  to  him,  I  would  go 
thither.  I  was  detained  in  town  till  it 
was  too  late  on  the  pth,  so  went  to  him 
early  in  the  morning  of  the  loth  of  No- 
vember. "Now,"  said  he,  "that  you 
are  going  to  marry,  do  not  expect  more 
from  life  than  life  will  afford.  You  may 
often  find  yourself  out  of  humor,  and 
you  may  often  think  your  wife  not  stu- 
dious enough1  to  please  you;  and  yet  you 
may  have  reason  to  consider  yourself 
as  upon  the  whole  very  happily  married." 

Talking  of  marriage  in  general,  he  ob- 
served, "Our  marriage  service  is  too  re- 
fined. It  is  calculated  only  for  the  best 
kind  of  marriages;  whereas,  we  should 
have  a  form  for  matches  of  convenience,  of 
which  there  are  many."  He  agreed  with 
me  that  there  was  no  absolute  necessity 
for  having  the  marriage  ceremony  per- 
formed by  a  regular  clergyman,  for  this 
was  not  commanded  in  scripture. 


DINNER   WITH   JOHN   WILKES 

I  AM  now  to  record  a  very  curious  inci- 
dent in  Dr.  Johnson's  life,  which  fell 
under  my  observation;  of  which  pars 
tnagnafui,  and  which  I  am  persuaded  will, 
with  the  liberal-minded,  be  much  to  his 
credit. 

My  desire  of  being  acquainted  with  cele- 
brated men  of  every  description,  had  made 
me,  much  about  the  same  tune,  obtain  an 
introduction  to  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  and 
to  John  Wilkes,  Esq.*  Two  men  more 
different  could  perhaps  not  be  selected  out 
of  mankind.  They  had  even  attacked  one 
another  with  some  asperity  in  their  writ- 
ings; yet  I  lived  in  habits  of  friendship 
with  both.  I  could  fully  relish  the  ex- 
cellence of  each;  for  I  have  ever  delighted 
in  that  intellectual  chemistry  which  car« 
separate  good  qualities  from  evil  in  the 
same  person. 

My  worthy  booksellers  and  friends, 
Messieurs  Dilly  in  the  Poultry,  at  whose 
hospitable  and  well-covered  table  I  have 
seen  a  greater  number  of  literary  men, 
than  at  any  other,  except  that  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  had  invited  me  to 
meet  Mr.  Wilkes  and  some  other  gentle- 
men, on  Wednesday,  May  15.  "Pray," 
said  I,  "let  us  have  Dr.  Johnson."- 
"What,  with  Mr.  Wilkes?  Not  for  the 
world,"  said  Mr.  Edward  Dilly;  "Dr. 
Johnson  would  never  forgive  me,"- 
"  Come,"  said  I,  "if  you'll  let  me  negotiate 
for  you,  I  will  be  answerable  that  all  shall 
go  well."  DILLY:  "Nay,  if  you  will 
take  it  upon  you,  I  am  sure  I  shafi  be  very 
happy  to  see  them  both  here." 

Notwithstanding  the  high  veneration 
which  I  entertained  for  Dr.  Johnson,  I  was 
sensible  that  he  was  sometimes  a  little 
actuated  by  the  spirit  of  contradiction, 
and  by  means  of  that  I  hoped  I  should 
gain  my  point.  I  was  persuaded,  that  if  I 
had  come  upon  him  with  a  direct  proposal, 
"Sir,  will  you  dine  in  company  with 
Jack  Wilkes?  "  he  would  have  flown  into  a 
passion,  and  would  probably  have  an- 
swered, "Dine  with  Jack  Wilkes,  sir. 

•A  member  of  Parliament  whom  Johnson  considered  a 
demagogue  and  a  man  whose  influence  was  subversive  of 
tstablished  institution*. 


BIOGRAPHY 


345 


I'd  as  soon  dine  with  Jack  Ketch."  I 
therefore,  while  we  were  sitting  quietly  by 
ourselves  at  his  house  in  an  evening,  took 
occasion  to  open  my  plan  thus: — "Mr. 
Dilly,  sir,  sends  his  respectful  compli- 
ments to  you,  and  would  be  happy  if  you 
would  do  him  the  honor  to  dine  with  him 
on  Wednesday  next  along  with  me,  as  I 
must  soon  go  to  Scotland."  JOHNSON: 
"Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  Mr.  Dilly.  I  will 
wait  upon  him. — "  BOSWELL:  "Pro- 
vided, sir,  I  suppose,  that  the  company 
which  he  is  to  have  is  agreeable  to  you." 
JOHNSON:  "What  do  you  mean,  sir? 
What  do  you  take  me  for?  Do  you  think 
that  I  am  so  ignorant  of  the  world,  as  to 
imagine  that  I  am  to  prescribe  to  a  gentle- 
man what  company  he  is  to  have  at  his 
table?  "  BOSWELL:  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir,  for  wishing  to  prevent  you  from  meet- 
ing people  whom  you  might  not  like. 
Perhaps  he  may  have  some  of  what  he 
calls  his  patriotic  friends  with  him." 
JOHNSON:  "Well,  sir,  and  what  then? 
What  care  /  for  his  patriotic  friends? 
Poh!"  BOSWELL:  "I  should  not  be 
surprised  to  find  Jack  Wilkes  there." 
JOHNSON:  "And  if  Jack  Wilkes  should 
be  there,  what  is  that  to  me,  sir?  My 
dear  friend,  let  us  have  no  more  of  this. 
I  am  sorry  to  be  angry  with  you;  but 
really  it  is  treating  me  strangely  to  talk 
to  me  as  if  I  could  not  meet  any  company 
whatever,  occasionally." 

Thus  I  secured  him,  and  told  Dilly 
that  he  would  find  him  very  well  pleased 
to  be  one  of  his  guests  on  the  day  ap- 
pointed. 

Upon  the  much-expected  Wednesday, 
I  called  on  him  about  half  an  hour  before 
dinner,  as  I  often  did  when  we  were  to 
dine  out  together  to  see  that  he  was  ready 
in  time,  and  to  accompany  him. 

When  we  entered  Mr.  Dilly's  drawing- 
room,  he  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a 
company  he  did  not  know.  I  kept  myself 
snug  and  silent,  watching  how  he  would 
conduct  himself.  I  observed  him  whisper- 
ing to  Mr.  Dilly,  "Who  is  that  gentleman, 
sir?" — "Mr.  Arthur  Lee." — JOHNSON: 
"Too,  too,  too,"  (under  his  breath,) 
which  was  one  of  his  habitual  mutterings. 


Mr.  Arthur  Lee  could  not  but  be  very 
obnoxious  to  Johnson,  for  he  was  not  only 
a  patriot  but  an  American.  He  was 
afterwards  minister  from  the  United 
States  at  the  Court  of  Madrid.  "And 
who  is  the  gentleman  in  lace?" — "Mr. 
Wilkes,  sir."  This  information  con- 
founded him  still  more;  he  had  some  dif- 
ficulty to  restrain  himself,  and  taking  up  a 
book  sat  down  upon  a  window-seat  and 
read,  or  at  least  kept  his  eye  intently  upon 
it  for  some  time,  till  he  composed  him- 
self. His  feelings,  I  dare  say,  were  awk- 
ward enough.  But  he  no  doubt  recol- 
lected having  rated  me,  for  supposing  that 
he  could  be  at  all  disconcerted  by  any  com- 
pany, and  he,  therefore,  resolutely  set 
himself  to  behave  quite  as  an  easy  man  of 
the  world,  who  could  adapt  himself  at 
once  to  the  disposition  and  manners  of 
those  whom  he  might  chance  to  meet. 

The  cheering  sound  of  "Dinner  is  upon 
the  table,"  dissolved  his  reverie,  and  we 
all  sat  down  without  any  symptom  of  ill- 
humor.  There  were  present — beside  Mr. 
Wilkes,  and  Mr.  Arthur  Lee,  who  was  an 
old  companion  of  mine  when  he  studied 
physic  at  Edinburgh — Mr.  (now  Sir  John) 
Miller,  Dr.  Lettsom,  and  Mr.  Slater  the 
druggist.  Mr.  Wilkes  placed  himself  next 
to  Dr.  Johnson,  and  behaved  to  him  with 
so  much  attention  and  politeness,  that  he 
gained  upon  him  insensibly.  No  man 
eat  more  heartily  than  Johnson,  or  loved 
better  what  was  nice  and  delicate.  Mr. 
Wilkes  was  very  assiduous  in  helping  him 
to  some  fine  veal.  "Pray  give  me  leave, 
sir; — It  is  better  here — A  little  of  the 
brown — Some  fat,  sir — A  little  of  the 
stuffing — Some  gravy — Let  me  have  the 
pleasure  of  giving  you  some  butter — 
Allow  me  to  recommend  a  squeeze  of  this 
orange;  or  the  lemon,  perhaps,  may  have 
more  zest." — "Sir,  sir,  I  am  obliged  to 
you,  sir,"  cried  Johnson,  bowing,  and  turn- 
ing his  head  to  him  with  a  look  for  some 
time  of  "surly  virtue,"  but,  in  a  short 
while,  of  complacency. 

Foote  being  mentioned,  Johnson  said, 
"He  is  not  a  good  mimic."  One  of  the 
company  added,  "A  merry  Andrew,  a 
buffoon?"  JOHNSON:  "But  he  has  wit, 


346 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


too,  and  is  not  deficient  in  ideas,  or  in 
fertility  and  variety  of  imagery,  and  not 
empty  of  reading;  he  has  knowledge 
enough  to  fill  up  his  part.  One  species 
of  wit  he  has  in  an  eminent  degree,  that 
of  escape.  You  drive  him  into  a  corner 
with  both  hands;  but  he's  gone,  sir,  when 
you  think  you  have  got  him — like  an 
animal  that  jumps  over  your  head.  Then 
he  has  a  great  range  for  wit;  he  never  lets 
truth  stand  between  him  and  a  jest,  and 
he  is  sometimes  mighty  coarse.  Garrick 
is  under  many  restraints  from  which  Foote 
is  free."  WILKES:  "Garrick's  wit  is 
more  like  Lord  Chesterfield's."  JOHN- 
SON: "The  first  time  I  was  in  company 
with  Foote,  was  at  Fitzherbert's.  Having 
no  good  opinion  of  the  fellow,  I  was  re- 
solved not  to  be  pleased;  and  it's  very  dif- 
ficult to  please  a  man  against  his  will.  I 
went  on  eating  my  dinner  pretty  sullenly, 
affecting  not  to  mind  him;  but  the  dog 
was  so  very  comical,  that  I  was  obliged 
to  lay  down  my  knife  and  fork,  throw  my- 
self back  upon  my  chair,  and  fairly  laugh  it 
out.  No,  sir,  he  was  irresistible.  He  upon 
one  occasion  experienced,  in  an  extraor- 
dinary degree,  the  efficacy  of  his  powers 
of  entertaining.  Amongst  the  many  and 
various  modes  which  he  tried  of  getting 
money,  he  became  a  partner  with  a  small- 
beer  brewer,  and  he  was  to  have  a  share 
of  the  profits  for  procuring  customers 
amongst  his  numerous  acquaintance. 
Fitzherbert  was  one  who  took  his  small- 
beer;  but  it  was  so  bad  that  the  servants 
resolved  not  to  drink  it.  They  were  at 
some  loss  how  to  notify  their  resolution, 
being  afraid  of  offending  their  master, 
who  they  knew  liked  Foote  much  as  a 
companion.  At  last  they  fixed  upon  a 
little  black  boy,  who  was  rather  a  favorite, 
to  be  their  deputy,  and  deliver  their  re- 
monstrance; and  having  infested  him 
with  the  whole  authority  of  the  kitchen, 
he  was  to  inform  Mr.  Fitzherbert,  in  all 
their  names,  upon  a  certain  day,  that 
they  would  drink  Foote's  small-beer  no 
longer.  On  that  day  Foote  happened  to 
dine  at  Fitzherbert's,  and  this  boy  served 
at  table;  he  was  so  delighted  with  Foote's 
stories,  and  merriment,  and  grimace,  that 


when  he  went  down  stairs  he  told  them, 
'This  is  the  finest  man  I  have  ever  seen. 
I  will  not  deliver  your  message.  I  will 
drink  his  small-beer.'" 

Talking  of  the  great  difficulty  of  obtain- 
ing authentic  information  for  biography, 
Johnson  told  us,  "When  I  was  a  young 
fellow  I  wanted  to  write  the  'Life  of 
Dryden,'  and  in  order  to  get  materials  I 
applied  to  the  only  two  persons  then 
alive  who  had  seen  him;  these  were  old 
Swinney,  and  old  Gibber.  Swinney's  in- 
formation was  no  more  than  this,  'That 
at  Will's  coffee  house  Dryden  had  a  partic- 
ular chair  for  himself,  which  was  set  by 
the  fire  in  winter,  and  was  then  called  his 
winter-chair;  and  it  was  carried  out  for 
him  to  the  balcony  in  summer,  and  was 
then  called  his  summer-chair.'  Gibber 
could  tell  no  more  but  'That  he  remem- 
bered him  a  decent  old  man,  arbiter  of 
critical  disputes  at  Will's.'  You  are  to 
consider  that  Gibber  was  then  at  a  great 
distance  from  Dryden,  had  perhaps,  one 
leg  only  in  the  room,  and  durst  not  draw 
in  the  other."  BOSWELL:  "But  Gibber 
was  a  man  of  observation?"  JOHNSON: 
"I  think  not."  BOSWELL:  "You  will 
allow  his  'Apology'  to  be  well  done." 
JOHNSON:  "Very  well  done,  to  be  sure, 
sir.  That  book  is  a  striking  proof  of  the 
justice  of  Pope's  remark: 

'Each  might  his  several  province  well  command, 
Would  all  but  stoop  to  what  they  understand.'  " 

BOSWELL:  "And  his  plays  are  good." 
JOHNSON:  "Yes;  but  that  was  his  trade; 
I'esprit  du  corps;  he  had  been  all  his  life 
among  players  and  play-writers.  I  won- 
dered that  he  had  so  little  to  say  in  conver- 
sation, for  he  had  kept  the  best  company, 
and  learnt  all  that  can  be  got  by  the  ear. 
He  abused  Pindar  to  me,  and  then  showed 
me  an  ode  of  his  own,  with  an  absurd 
couplet  making  a  linnet  soar  on  an  eagle's 
wing.  I  told  him,  that  when  the  ancients 
made  a  simile,  they  always  made  it  like 
something  real." 

Mr.  Wilkes  remarked,  that  "among  all 
the  bold  flights  of  Shakespeare's  imagina- 
tion, the  boldest  was  making  Birnam- 


BIOGRAPHY 


347 


wood  march  to  Dunsinane,  creating  a 
wood  where  there  was  never  a  shrub;  a 
wood  in  Scotland!  ha!  ha!  ha!"  And 
he  also  observed,  that  "the  clannish 
slavery  of  the  Highlands  of  Scotland  was 
the  single  exception  to  Milton's  remark  of 
'The  Mountain  Nymph,  sweet  Liberty,' 
being  worshipped  in  all  hilly  countries. 
When  I  was  at  Inverary,"  said  he,  "on  a 
visit  to  my  old  friend,  Archibald  Duke  of 
Argyle,  his  dependents  congratulated  me 
on  being  such  a  favorite  of  his  Grace.  I 
said,  'It  is,  then,  gentlemen,  truly  lucky 
for  me;  for  if  I  had  displeased  the  Duke, 
and  he  had  wished  it,  there  is  not  a  Camp- 
bell among  you  but  would  have  been 
ready  to  bring  John  Wilkes's  head  to  him 
in  a  charger.  It  would  have  been  only 

'Off  with  his  head!    So  much  for  Aylesbury.' 

I  was  then  member  for  Aylesbury." 

Mr.  Arthur  Lee  mentioned  some  Scotch 
who  had  taken  possession  of  a  barren 
part  of  America,  and  wondered  why  they 
should  choose  it.  JOHNSON:  "Why,  sir, 
all  barrenness  is  comparative.  The 
Scotch  would  not  know  it  to  be  barren." 
BOSWELL:  "Come,  come,  he  is  flattering 
the  English.  You  have  now  been  in 
Scotland,  sir,  and  say  if  you  did  not  see 
meat  and  drink  enough  there."  JOHN- 
SON: "Why  yes,  sir;  meat  and  drink 
enough  to  give  the  inhabitants  sufficient 
strength  to  run  away  from  home."  All 
these  quick  and  lively  sallies  were  said 


sportively,  quite  in  jest,  and  with  a  smile, 
which  showed  that  he  meant  only  wit. 
Upon  this  topic,  he  and  Mr.  Wilkes  could 
perfectly  assimilate;  here  was  a  bond  of 
union  between  them,  and  I  was  conscious 
that  as  both  of  them  had  visited  Cale- 
donia, both  were  fully  satisfied  of  the 
strange  narrow  ignorance  of  those  who 
imagine  that  it  is  a  land  of  famine.  But 
they  amused  themselves  with  persevering 
in  the  old  jokes. 

After  dinner  we  had  an  accession  of  Mrs. 
Knowles,  the  Quaker  lady,  well  known 
for  her  various  talents,  and  of  Mr.  Alder- 
man Lee.  Amidst  some  patriotic  groans, 
somebody,  I  think  the  Alderman,  said, 
"Poor  old  England  is  lost."  JOHNSON: 
"Sir,  it  is  not  so  much  to  be  lamented 
that  old  England  is  lost,  as  that  the  Scotch 
have  found  it." 

Mr.  Wilkes  held  a  candle  to  show  a  fine 
print  of  a  beautiful  female  figure  which 
hung  in  the  room,  and  pointed  out  the 
elegant  contour  of  the  bosom,  with  the 
finger  of  an  arch  connoisseur.  He  after- 
wards, in  a  conversation  with  me,  wag- 
gishly insisted,  that  all  the  time  Johnson 
showed  visible  signs  of  a  fervent  admira- 
tion of  the  corresponding  charms  of  the  fair 
Quaker. 

I  attended  Dr.  Johnson  home,  and 
had  the  satisfaction  to  hear  him  tell  Mrs. 
Williams  how  much  he  had  been  pleased 
with  Mr.  Wilkes's  company,  and  what  an 
agreeable  day  he  had  passed. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  (1706-1790) 

Common  sense  is  Franklin's  distinguishing  trait — common  sense  in  such  abundant  measure  and  so 
variously  applied  that,  whether  we  regard  him  as  scientist  and  inventor,  statesman  and  diplomat,  or 


as  street-cleaning  and  the  improvement 

humor  of  the  author  of  "Poor  Richard's  Almanac". 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

CONCERNING  MILITIA  AND  THE  FOUND- 
ING OF  A  COLLEGE 

I  HAD,  on  the  whole,  abundant  reason 
to  be  satisfied  with  my  being  established 
in  Pennsylvania.  There  were,  however, 
two  things  that  *  regretted,  there  being 


thing  of  the  instructive 

no  provision  for  defence,  nor  for  a  com- 
plete education  of  youth;  no  militia,  nor 
any  college.  I  therefore,  hi  1743,  drew 
up  a  proposal  for  establishing  an  academy; 
and  at  that  time,  thinking  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Peters,  who  was  out  of  employ,  a 
fit  person  to  superintend  such  an  insti- 
tution, I  communicated  the  project  to 


348 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


him;  but  he,  having  more  profitable  views 
in  the  service  of  the  proprietaries,  which 
succeeded,  declined  the  undertaking;  and, 
not  knowing  another  at  that  time  suitable 
for  such  a  trust,  I  let  the  scheme  lie  a 
while  dormant.  I  succeeded  better  the 
next  year,  1744,  in  proposing  and  establish- 
ing a  Philosophical  Society.  The  paper 
I  wrote  for  that  purpose  will  be  found 
among  my  writings,  when  collected. 

With  respect  to  defence,  Spain  having 
been  several  years  at  war  against  Great 
Britain,  and  being  at  length  joined  by 
France,  which  brought  us  into  great 
danger,  and  the  labored  and  long-con- 
tinued endeavor  of  our  governor,  Thomas, 
to  prevail  with  our  Quaker  Assembly  to 
pass  a  militia  law,  and  make  other  pro- 
visions for  the  security  of  the  province, 
having  proved  abortive,  I  determined  to 
try  what  might  be  done  by  a  voluntary 
association  of  the  people.  To  promote 
this,  I  first  wrote  and  published  a  pamph- 
let, entitled  Plain  Truth,  in  which  I 
stated  our  defenceless  situation  in  strong 
lights,  with  the  necessity  of  union  and  dis- 
cipline for  our  defence,  and  promised  to 
propose  in  a  few  days  an  association,  to  be 
generally  signed  for  that  purpose.  The 
pamphlet  had  a  sudden  and  surprising 
effect.  I  was  called  upon  for  the  in- 
strument of  association,  and  having  set- 
tled the  draft  of  it  with  a  few  friends,  I 
appointed  a  meeting  of  the  citizens  in  the 
large  building  before  mentioned.  The 
house  was  pretty  full;  I  had  prepared  a 
number  of  printed  copies,  and  provided 
pens  and  ink  dispersed  all  over  the  room. 
I  harangued  them  a  little  on  the  subject, 
read  the  paper,  and  explained  it,  and  then 
distributed  the  copies,  which  were  eagerly 
signed,  not  the  least  objection  being  made. 

When  the  company  separated,  and  the 
papers  were  collected,  we  found  above 
twelve  hundred  hands;  and  other  copies 
being  dispersed  in  the  country,  the  sub- 
scribers amounted  at  length  to  upward  of 
ten  thousand.  These  all  furnished  them- 
selves as  soon  as  they  could  with  arms, 
formed  themselves  in  to  companies  and  regi- 
ments, chose  their  own  officers,  and  met 
every  week  to  be  instructed  in  the  manual 


exercise,  and  other  parts  of  military  disci- 
pline. The  women,  by  subscriptions 
among  themselves,  provided  silk  colors, 
which  they  presented  to  the  companies, 
painted  with  different  devices  and  mottoes, 
which  I  supplied. 

The  officers  of  the  companies  composing 
the  Philadelphia  regiment,  being  met, 
chose  me  for  their  colonel;  but,  conceiving 
myself  unfit,  I  declined  that  station,  and 
recommended  Mr.  Lawrence,  a  fine  per- 
son, and  man  of  influence,  who  was  ac- 
cordingly appointed.  I  then  proposed  a 
lottery  to  defray  the  expense  of  building 
a  battery  below  the  town,  and  furnishing 
it  with  cannon.  It  filled  expeditiously, 
and  the  battery  was  soon  erected,  the 
merlons  being  framed  of  logs  and  filled 
with  earth.  We  bought  some  old  cannon 
from  Boston,  but  these  not  being  sufficient, 
we  wrote  to  England  for  more,  soliciting, 
at  the  same  time,  our  proprietaries  for 
some  assistance,  though  without  much 
expectation  of  obtaining  it. 

Meanwhile  Colonel  Lawrence,  William 
Allen,  Abram  Taylor,  Esquire,  and  myself 
were  sent  to  New  York  by  the  associators, 
commissioned  to  borrow  some  cannon  of 
Governor  Clinton.  He  at  first  refused  us 
peremptorily;  but  at  dinner  with  his  coun- 
cil, where  there  was  great  drinking  of 
Madeira  wine,  as  the  custom  of  that  place 
then  was,  he  softened  by  degrees,  and 
said  he  would  lend  us  six.  After  a  few 
more  bumpers  he  advanced  to  ten;  and 
at  length  he  very  good-naturedly  conceded 
eighteen.  They  were  fine  cannon,  eight- 
een-pounders,  with  their  carriages,  which 
we  soon  transported  and  mounted  on  our 
battery,  where  the  associators  kept  a 
nightly  guard  while  the  war  lasted,  and 
among  the  rest  I  regularly  took  my  turn 
of  duty  there  as  a  common  soldier. 

My  activity  in  these  operations  was 
agreeable  to  the  governor  and  council; 
they  took  me  into  confidence,  and  I  wa; 
consulted  by  them  in  every  measure 
wherein  their  concurrence  was  thought 
useful  to  the  association.  Calling  in  the 
aid  of  religion,  I  proposed  to  them  the 
proclaiming  a  fast,  to  promote  reformation, 
and  implore  the  blessing  of  Heaven  on  our 


BIOGRAPHY 


349 


undertaking.  They  embraced  the  motion ; 
but,  as  it  was  the  first  fast  ever  thought 
of  hi  the  province,  the  secretary  had  no 
precedent  from  which  to  draw  the  procla- 
mation. My  education  in  New  England, 
where  a  fast  is  proclaimed  every  year,  was 
here  of  some  advantage:  I  drew  it  hi  the 
accustomed  style;  it  was  translated  into 
German,  printed  in  both  languages,  and 
divulged  through  the  province.  This  gave 
the  clergy  of  the  different  sects  an  oppor- 
tunity of  influencing  their  congregations  to 
join  in  the  association,  and  it  would  prob- 
ably have  been  general  among  all  but  Quak- 
ers if  the  peace  had  not  soon  intervened. 
It  was  thought  by  some  of  my  friends 
that,  by  my  activity  in  these  affairs,  I 
should  offend  that  sect,  and  thereby  lose 
my  interest  in  the  Assembly  of  the  prov- 
ince, where  they  formed  a  great  majority. 
A  young  gentleman,  who  had  likewise  some 
friends  in  the  House,  and  wished  to  suc- 
ceed me  as  their  clerk,  acquainted  me 
that  it  was  decided  to  displace  me  at  the 
next  election;  and  he,  therefore,  in  good 
will,  advised  me  to  resign,  as  more  con- 
sistent with  my  honor  than  being  turned 
out.  My  answer  to  him  was,  that  I  had 
read  or  heard  of  some  public  man  who 
made  it  a  rule  never  to  ask  for  an  office, 
and  never  to  refuse  one  when  offered  to 
him.  "I  approve,"  says  I,  "of  his  rule, 
and  will  practise  it  with  a  small  addition: 
I  shall  never  ask,  never  refuse,  nor  ever 
resign  an  office.  If  they  will  have  my 
office  of  clerk  to  dispose  of  to  another, 
they  shall  take  it  from  me.  I  will  not, 
by  giving  it  up,  lose  my  right  of  some  tune 
or  other  making  reprisals  on  my  adver- 
saries." I  heard,  however,  no  more  of 
this;  I  was  chosen  again  unanimously  as 
usual  at  the  next  election.  Possibly,  as 
they  disliked  my  late  intimacy  with  the 
members  of  council,  who  had  joined  the 
governors  hi  all  the  disputes  about  mili- 
tary preparations,  with  which  the  House 
had  long  been  harassed,  they  might  have 
been  pleased  if  I  would  voluntarily  have 
left  them;  but  they  did  not  care  to  displace 
me  on  account  merely  of  my  zeal  for  the 
association,  and  they  could  not  well  give 
another  reason. 


Indeed,  I  had  some  cause  to  believe 
that  the  defence  of  the  country  was  not 
disagreeable  to  any  of  them,  provided  they 
were  not  required  to  assist  in  it.  And 
I  found  that  a  much  greater  number  of 
them  than  I  could  have  imagined,  though 
against  offensive  war,  were  clearly  for  the 
defensive.  Many  pamphlets  pro  and  con 
were  published  on  the  subject,  and  some 
by  good  Quakers,  in  favor  of  defense, 
which  I  believe  convinced  most  of  their 
younger  people. 

A  transaction  in  our  fire  company  gave 
me  some  insight  into  their  prevailing 
sentiments.  It  had  been  proposed  that  we 
should  encourage  the  scheme  for  building 
a  battery  by  laying  out  the  present  stock, 
then  about  sixty  pounds,  in  tickets  of  the 
lottery.  By  our  rules,  no  money  could  be 
disposed  of  till  the  next  meeting  after  the 
proposal.  The  company  consisted  of 
thirty  members,  of  which  twenty-two 
were  Quakers,  and  eight  only  of  other 
persuasions.  We  eight  punctually  at- 
tended the  meeting;  but  though  we  thought 
that  some  of  the  Quakers  would  joir  us, 
we  were  by  no  means  sure  of  a  majority. 
Only  one  Quaker,  Mr.  James  Morris,  ap- 
peared to  oppose  the  measure.  He  ex- 
pressed much  sorrow  that  it  had  ever 
been  proposed,  as  he  said  Friends  were  all 
against  it,  and  it  would  create  such  dis- 
cord as  might  break  up  the  company. 
We  told  huii  that  we  saw  no  reason  for 
that;  we  were  the  minority,  and  if  Friends 
were  against  the  measure,  and  outvoted 
us,  we  must  and  should,  agreeably  to  the 
usage  of  all  societies,  submit.  When  the 
hour  for  business  arrived  it  was  moved  to 
put  the  vote;  he  allowed  we  might  then 
do  it  by  the  rules,  but,  as  he  could  assure 
us  that  a  number  of  members  intended 
to  be  present  for  the  purpose  of  opposing 
it,  it  would  be  but  candid  to  allow  a  little 
time  for  their  appearing. 

While  we  were  disputing  this,  a  waiter 
came  to  tell  me  two  gentlemen  below  de- 
sired to  speak  with  me.  I  went  down, 
and  found  they  were  two  of  our  Quaker 
members.  They  told  me  there  were 
eight  of  them  assembled  at  a  tavern  just 
by;  that  they  were  determined  to  come  and 


350 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


vote  with  us  if  there  should  be  occasion, 
which  they  hoped  would  not  be  the  case, 
and  desired  we  would  not  call  for  their 
assistance  if  we  could  do  without  it,  as 
their  voting  for  such  a  measure  might  em- 
broil them  with  their  elders  and  friends. 
Being  thus  secure  of  a  majority,  I  went 
up,  and  after  a  little  seeming  hesitation, 
agreed  to  a  delay  of  another  hour.  This 
Mr.  Morris  allowed  to  be  extremely  fair. 
Not  one  of  his  opposing  friends  appeared, 
at  which  he  expressed  great  surprise;  and 
at  the  expiration  of  the  hour,  we  carried 
the  resolution  eight  to  one;  and  as,  of  the 
twenty-two  Quakers,  eight  were  ready  to 
vote  with  us,  and  thirteen,  by  their  ab- 
sence, manifested  that  they  were  not  in- 
clined to  oppose  the  measure,  I  afterwards 
estimated  the  proportion  of  Quakers  sin- 
cerely against  defense  as  one  to  twenty- 
one  only;  for  these  were  all  regular  mem- 
bers of  that  society,  and  in  good  reputation 
among  them,  and  had  due  notice  of  what 
was  proposed  at  that  meeting. 

The  honorable  and  learned  Mr.  Logan, 
who  had  always  been  of  that  sect,  was  one 
who  wrote  an  address  to  them,  declaring  his 
approbation  of  defensive  war,  and  sup- 
porting his  opinion  by  many  strong 
arguments.  He  put  into  my  hands  sixty 
pounds  to  be  laid  out  in  lottery  tickets  for 
the  battery,  with  directions  to  apply  what 
prizes  might  be  drawn  wholly  to  that  ser- 
vice. He  told  me  the  following  anecdote 
of  his  old  master,  William  Penn,  respecting 
defense.  He  came  over  from  England, 
when  a  young  man,  with  that  proprietary, 
and  as  his  secretary.  It  was  war  tune,  and 
their  ship  was  chased  by  an  armed  vessel, 
supposed  to  be  an  enemy.  Their  captain 
prepared  for  defense;  but  told  William 
Penn,  and  his  company  of  Quakers, 
that  he  did  not  expect  their  assistance, 
and  they  might  retire  into  the  cabin, 
which  they  did,  except  James  Logan, 
who  chose  to  stay  upon  deck,  and  was 
quartered  to  a  gun.  The  supposed  enemy 
proved  a  friend,  so  there  was  no  fighting; 
but  when  the  secretary  went  down  to 
communicate  the  intelligence,  William 
Penn  rebuked  him  severely  for  staying 
upon  deck,  and  undertaking  to  assist  in 


defending  the  vessel,  contrary  to  the  prin- 
ciples of  Friends,  especially  as  it  had  not 
been  required  by  the  captain.  This  re- 
proof, being  before  all  the  company, 
piqued  the  secretary,  who  answered,  "I 
being  thy  servant,  why  did  thee  not  order 
me  to  come  down  ?  But  thee  was  witting 
enough  that  I  should  stay  and  help  to  fight 
the  ship  when  thee  thought  there  was  danger." 

My  being  many  years  in  the  Assembly, 
the  majority  of  which  were  constantly 
Quakers,  gave  me  frequent  opportunities 
of  seeing  the  embarrassment  given  them 
by  their  principle  against  war,  whenever 
application  was  made  to  them,  by  ordei 
of  the  crown,  to  grant  aids  for  military 
purposes.  They  were  unwilling  to  offend 
government,  on  the  one  hand,  by  a  direct 
refusal;  and  their  friends,  the  body  of  the 
Quakers,  on  the  other,  by  a  compliance 
contrary  to  their  principles;  hence  a  va- 
riety of  evasions  to  avoid  complying,  and 
modes  of  disguising  the  compliance  when 
it  became  unavoidable.  The  common 
mode  at  last  was,  to  grant  money  undei 
the  phrase  of  its  being  "for  the  king's 
use"  and  never  to  inquire  how  it  was 
applied. 

But  if  the  demand  was  not  directly 
from  the  crown,  that  phrase  was  found  nc  * 
so  proper,  and  some  other  was  to  be  in- 
vented. As,  when  powder  was  wanting 
(I  think  it  was  for  the  garrison  at  Louis- 
burg),  and  the  government  of  New  Eng- 
land solicited  a  grant  of  some  from  Penn- 
sylvania, which  was  much  urged  on  the 
House  by  Governor  Thomas,  they  could 
not  grant  money  to  buy  powder,  because 
that  was  an  ingredient  of  war;  but  they 
voted  an  aid  to  New  England  of  three 
thousand  pounds,  to  be  put  into  the  hands 
of  the  governor,  and  appropriated  it  for 
the  purchasing  of  bread,  flour,  wheat,  or 
other  grain.  Some  of  the  council,  desirous 
of  giving  the  House  still  further  em- 
barrassment, advised  the  governor  not  to 
accept  provision,  as  not  being  the  thing 
he  had  demanded;  but  he  replied,  "I  shall 
take  the  money,  for  I  understand  very 
well  their  meaning;  other  grain  is  gun- 
powder," which  he  accordingly  bought, 
and  they  never  objected  to  it, 


BIOGRAPHY 


It  was  in  allusion  to  this  fact  that  when, 
in  our  fire  company,  we  feared  the  success 
of  our  proposal  in  favor  of  the  lottery, 
and  I  had  said  to  my  friend  Mr.  Syng, 
one  of  our  members,  "If  we  fail,  let  us 
move  the  purchase  of  a  fire-engine  with  the 
money;  the  Quakers  can  have  no  objection 
to  that;  and  then,  if  you  nominate  me  and 
I  you  as  a  committee  for  that  purpose,  we 
will  buy  a  great  gun,  which  is  certainly 
a  fire-engine,"  "I  see,"  says  he,  "you 
have  improved  by  being  so  long  in  the 
Assembly;  your  equivocal  project  would 
be  just  a  match  for  their  wheat  or  other 
grain.1" 

These  embarrassments  that  the  Quakers 
suffered  from  having  established  and  pub- 
lished it  as  one  of  their  principles  that  no 
kind  of  war  was  lawful,  and  which,  being 
once  published,  they  could  not  afterwards, 
however  they  might  change  their  minds, 
easily  get  rid  of,  reminds  me  of  what  I 
think  a  more  prudent  conduct  in  another 
sect  among  us,  that  of  the  Bunkers.  I 
was  acquainted  with  one  of  its  founders, 
Michael  Welfare,  soon  after  it  appeared. 
He  complained  to  me  that  they  were  griev- 
ously calumniated  by  the  zealots  of  other 
persuasions,  and  charged  with  abominable 
principles  and  practices,  to  which  they 
were  utter  strangers.  I  told  him  this  had 
always  been  the  case  with  new  sects,  and 
that,  to  put  a  stop  to  such  abuse,  I  imag- 
ined it  might  be  well  to  publish  the  articles 
of  their  belief,  and  the  rules  of  their  dis- 
cipline. He  said  that  it  had  been  pro- 
posed among  them,  but  not  agreed  to,  for 
this  reason:  "When  we  were  first  drawn 
together  as  a  society,"  says  he,  "it  has 
pleased  God  to  enlighten  our  minds  so 
far  as  to  see  that  some  doctrines,  which 
we  once  esteemed  truths,  were  errors; 
and  that  others,  which  we  had  esteemed 
errors,  were  real  truths.  From  tune  to 
tune  He  had  been  pleased  to  afford  us 
farther  light,  and  our  principles  have  been 
improving,  and  our  errors  diminihshig. 
Now  we  are  not  sure  that  we  are  arrived 
at  the  end  of  this  progression,  and  at  the 
perfection  of  spiritual  or  theological  knowl- 
edge; and  we  fear  that,  if  we  should  once 
print  our  confession  of  faith,  we  should 


feel  ourselves  as  if  bound  and  confined  by 
it,  and  perhaps  be  unwilling  to  receive 
farther  improvement,  and  our  successors 
still  more  so,  as  conceiving  what  we  their 
elders  and  founders  had  done,  to  be  some- 
thing sacred,  never  to  be  departed  from." 

This  modesty  in  a  sect  is  perhaps  a  sin- 
gular instance  in  the  history  of  mankind, 
every  other  sect  supposing  itself  in  pos- 
session of  all  truth,  and  that  those  who 
differ  are  so  far  in  the  wrong;  like  a  man 
travelling  hi  foggy  weather,  those  at  some 
distance  before  him  on  the  road  he  sees 
wrapped  up  in  the  fog,  as  well  as  those 
behind  him,  and  also  the  people  in  the 
fields  on  each  side,  but  near  him  all  ap- 
pears clear,  though  in  truth  he  is  as  much 
in  the  fog  as  any  of  them.  To  avoid  this 
kind  of  embarrassment,  the  Quakers  have 
of  late  years  been  gradually  declining  the 
public  service  in  the  Assembly  and  in  the 
magistracy,  choosing  rather  to  quit  their 
power  than  their  principle. 

In  order  of  tune,  I  should  have  men- 
tioned before,  that  having,  in  1742,  in- 
vented an  open  stove  for  the  better  warm- 
ing of  rooms,  and  at  the  same  time  saving 
fuel,  as  the  fresh  ah-  admitted  was  warmed 
in  entering,  I  made  a  present  of  the  model 
to  Mr.  Robert  Grace,  one  of  my  early 
friends,  who,  having  an  iron-furnace,  found 
the  casting  of  the  plates  for  these  stoves  a 
profitable  thing,  as  they  were  growing  hi 
demand.  To  promote  that  demand,  I 
wrote  and  published  a  pamphlet,  entitled 
"An  Account  of  the  new-invented  Penn- 
sylvania Fireplaces;  wherein  their  Con- 
struction and  Manner  of  Operation  is 
particularly  explained;  their  Advantages 
above  every  other  Method  of  warming  Rooms 
demonstrated;  and  all  Objections  that  have 
been  raised  against  the  Use  of  them  answered 
and  obviated"  etc.  This  pamphlet  had  a 
good  effect.  Governor  Thomas  was  so 
pleased  with  the  construction  of  this  stove, 
as  described  in  it,  that  he  offered  to  give 
me  a  patent  for  the  sole  vending  of  them 
for  a  term  of  years;  but  I  declined  it  from 
a  principle  which  has  ever  weighed  with 
me  on  such  occasions,  viz.,  That,  as  we 
enjoy  great  advantages  from  the  inventions 
of  others,  we  should  be  glad  of  an  opportunity 


352 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


to  serve  others  by  any  invention  of  ours;  and 
this  we  should  do  freely  and  generously. 

An  ironmonger  in  London,  however, 
assuming  a  good  deal  of  my  pamphlet, 
and  working  it  up  into  his  own,  and  making 
some  small  changes  in  the  machine,  which 
rather  hurt  its  operation,  got  a  patent  for 
it  there,  and  made,  as  I  was  told,  a  little 
fortune  by  it.  And  this  is  not  the  only 
instance  of  patents  taken  out  for  my  in- 
ventions by  others,  though  not  always 
with  the  same  success,  which  I  never  con- 
tested, as  having  no  desire  of  profiting 
by  patents  myself,  and  hating  disputes. 
The  use  of  these  fireplaces  hi  very  many 
bouses,  both  of  this  and  the  neighboring 
colonies,  has  been,  and  is,  a  great  saving 
of  wood  to  the  inhabitants. 

Peace  being  concluded,  and  the  associa- 
tion business  therefore  at  an  end,  I  turned 
my  thoughts  again  to  the  affair  of  estab- 
lishing an  academy.  The  first  step  I  took 
was  to  associate  in  the  design  a  number  of 
active  friends,  of  whom  the  Junto  fur- 
nished a  good  part;  the  next  was  to  write 
and  publish  a  pamphlet,  entitled  Proposals 
relating  to  the  Education  of  Youth  in  Penn- 
sylvania. This  I  distributed  among  the 
principal  inhabitants  gratis;  and  as  soon 
as  I  could  suppose  their  minds  a  little 
prepared  by  the  perusal  of  it,  I  set  on  foot 
a  subscription  for  opening  and  supporting 
an  academy;  it  was  to  be  paid  in  quotas 
yearly  for  five  years;  by  so  dividing  it,  I 
judged  the  subscription  might  be  larger, 
and  I  believe  it  was  so,  amounting  to  no 
less,  if  I  remember  right,  than  five  thou- 
sand pounds. 

In  the  introduction  to  these  proposals, 
I  stated  their  publication,  not  as  an  act 
of  mine,  but  of  some  public-spirited  gen- 
tlemen, avoiding  as  much  as  I  could,  ac- 
cording to  my  usual  rule,  the  presenting 
myself  to  the  public  as  the  author  of  any 
scheme  for  their  benefit. 

The  subscribers,  to  carry  the  project 
into  immediate  execution,  chose  out  of 
then-  number  twenty-four  trustees,  and 
appointed  Mr.  Francis,  then  attorney- 
general,  and  myself  to  draw  up  constitu- 
tions for  the  government  of  the  academy; 
which  being  done  and  signed,  a  house  was 


hired,  masters  engaged,  and  the  schools 
opened,  I  think,  in  the  same  year,  1749. 

The  scholars  increasing  fast,  the  house 
was  soon  found  too  small,  and  we  were 
looking  out  for  a  piece  of  ground,  properly 
situated,  with  intention  to  build,  when 
Providence  threw  into  our  way  a  large 
house  ready  built,  which,  with  a  few  al- 
terations, might  well  serve  our  purpose. 
This  was  the  building  before  mentioned, 
erected  by  the  hearers  of  Mr.  Whitefield, 
and  was  obtained  for  us  in  the  following 
manner. 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  contributions 
to  this  building  being  made  by  people  of 
different  sects,  care  was  taken  hi  the  nomi- 
nation of  trustees,  in  whom  the  building 
and  ground  was  to  be  vested,  that  a  pre- 
dominancy should  not  be  given  to  any 
sect,  lest  hi  time  that  predominancy 
might  be  a  means  of  appropriating  the 
whole  to  the  use  of  such  sect,  contrary  i 
to  the  original  intention.  It  was  therefore 
that  one  of  each  sect  was  appointed,  viz., 
one  Church-of-England  man,  one  Presby- 
terian, one  Baptist,  one  Moravian,  etc., 
those,  in  case  of  vacancy  by  death,  were 
to  fill  it  by  election  from  among  the  con- 
tributors. The  Moravian  happened  not 
to  please  his  colleagues,  and  on  his  death 
they  resolved  to  have  no  other  of  that 
sect.  The  difficulty  then  was,  how  to 
avoid  having  two  of  some  other  sect,  by 
means  of  the  new  choice. 

Several  persons  were  named,  and  for 
that  reason  not  agreed  to.  At  length  one 
mentioned  me,  with  the  observation  that 
I  was  merely  an  honest  man,  and  of  no 
sect  at  all,  which  prevailed  with  them  to 
choose  me.  The  enthusiasm  which  existed 
when  the  house  was  built  had  long  since 
abated,  and  its  trustees  had  not  been  able 
to  procure  fresh  contributions  for  paying 
the  ground-rent,  and  discharging  some 
other  debts  the  building  had  occasioned, 
which  embarrassed  them  greatly.  Being 
now  a  member  of  both  sets  of  trustees, 
that  for  the  building  and  that  for  the 
academy,  I  had  a  good  opportunity  of 
negotiating  with  both,  and  brought  them 
finally  to  an  agreement,  by  which  the 
trustees  for  the  building  were  to  cede  it 


BIOGRAPHY 


to  those  of  the  academy,  the  latter  under- 
taking to  discharge  the  debt,  to  keep  for- 
ever open  in  the  building  a  large  hall  for 
occasional  preachers,  according  to  the 
original  intention,  and  maintain  a  free 
school  for  the  instruction  of  poor  children. 
Writings  were  accordingly  drawn,  and 
on  paying  the  debts  the  trustees  of  the 
academy  were  put  in  possession  of  the 
premises;  and  by  dividing  the  great  and 
lofty  hall  into  stories,  and  different  rooms 
above  and  below  for  the  several  schools, 
and  purchasing  some  additional  ground, 
the  whole  was  soon  made  fit  for  our  pur- 
pose, and  the  scholars  removed  into  the 
building.  The  care  and  trouble  of  agree- 
ing with  the  workmen,  purchasing  ma- 
terials, and  superintending  the  work, 
fell  upon  me;  and  I  went  through  it  the 
more  cheerfully,  as  it  did  not  then  interfere 
with  my  private  business,  having  the  year 
before  taken  a  very  able,  industrious,  and 
honest  partner,  Mr.  David  Hall,  with 
whose  character  I  was  well  acquainted, 
as  he  had  worked  for  me  four  years.  He 
took  off  my  hands  all  care  of  the  printing 
office,  paying  me  punctually  my  share  of 
the  profits.  This  partnership  continued 
eighteen  years,  successfully  for  us  both. 

The  trustees  of  the  academy,  after  a 
while,  were  incorporated  by  a  charter 
from  the  governor;  their  funds  were  in- 
creased by  contributions  in  Britain  and 
grants  of  land  from  the  proprietaries,  to 
which  the  Assembly  has  since  made  con- 
siderable addition;  and  thus  was  estab- 
lished the  present  University  of  Phila- 
delphia. I  have  been  continued  one  of 
its  trustees  from  the  beginning,  now  near 
forty  years,  and  have  had  the  very  great 
pleasure  of  seeing  a  number  of  the  youth 
who  have  received  their  education  in  it, 
distinguished  by  their  unproved  abilities, 
serviceable  in  public  stations,  and  orna- 
ments to  their  country. 

PUBLIC  SUBSCRIPTIONS 

IN  1751,  Dr.  Thomas  Bond,  a  particular 
friend  of  mine,  conceived  the  idea  of  es- 
tablishing a  hospital  in  Philadelphia  (a 
very  beneficent  design,  which  has  been 


ascribed  to  me,  but  was  originally  his) 
for  the  reception  and  cure  of  poor  sick  per- 
sons, whether  inhabitants  of  the  province 
or  strangers.  He  was  zealous  and  active 
in  endeavoring  to  procure  subscriptions 
for  it,  but  the  proposal  being  a  novelty  in 
America,  and  at  first  not  well  understood, 
he  met  but  with  small  success. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  with  the  com- 
pliment that  he  found  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  carrying  a  public-spirited  project 
through  without  my  being  concerned  in  it. 
"For,"  says  he,  "I  am  often  asked  by 
those  to  whom  I  propose  subscribing, 
Have  you  consulted  Franklin  upon  this 
business?  And  what  does  he  think  of  it? 
And  when  I  tell  them  that  I  have  not 
(supposing  it  rather  out  of  your  line),  they 
do  not  subscribe,  but  say  they  will  con- 
sider of  it."  I  inquired  into  the  nature 
and  probable  utility  of  his  scheme,  and 
receiving  from  him  a  very  satisfactory 
explanation,  I  not  only  subscribed  to  it 
myself,  but  engaged  heartily  in  the  de- 
sign of  procuring  subscriptions  from 
others.  Previously,  however,  to  the  solici- 
tation I  endeavored  to  prepare  the  minds 
of  the  people  by  writing  on  the  subject  in 
the  newspapers,  which  was  my  usual  cus- 
tom in  such  cases,  but  which  he  had 
omitted. 

The  subscriptions  afterwards  were  more 
free  and  generous;  but,  beginning  to  flag, 
I  saw  they  would  be  insufficient  without 
some  assistance  from  the  Assembly,  and 
therefore  proposed  to  petition  for  it, 
which  was  done.  The  country  members 
did  not  at  first  relish  the  project;  they 
objected  that  it  could  only  be  serviceable 
to  the  city,  and  therefore  the  citizens  alone 
should  be  at  the  expense  of  it;  and  they 
doubted  whether  the  citizens  themselves 
generally  approved  of  it.  My  allegation 
on  the  contrary,  that  it  met  with  such 
approbation  as  to  leave  no  doubt  of  our 
being  able  to  raise  two  thousand  pounds  by 
voluntary  donations,  they  considered  as 
a  most  extravagant  supposition  and  ut- 
terly impossible. 

On  this  I  formed  my  plan;  and,  asking 
leave  to  bring  hi  a  bill  for  incorporating 
the  contributors  according  to  the  prayer 


354 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


of  their  petition,  and  granting  them  a 
blank  sum  of  money,  which  leave  was  ob- 
tained chiefly  on  the  consideration  that 
the  House  could  throw  the  bill  out  if  they 
did  not  like  it,  I  drew  it  so  as  to  make  the 
important  clause  a  conditional  one,  viz., 
"And  be  it  enacted,  by  the  authority  afore- 
said, that  when  the  said  contributors  shall 
have  met  and  chosen  their  managers  and 
treasurer,  and  shall  have  raised  by  their 

contributions  a  capital  stock  of value 

(the  yearly  interest  of  which  is  to  be  ap- 
plied to  the  accommodating  of  the  sick 
poor  in  the  said  hospital,  free  of  charge 
for  diet,  attendance,  advice,  and  medi- 
cines), and  shall  make  the  same  appear  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  speaker  of  the  Assem- 
bly for  the  time  being,  that  then  it  shall  and 
may  be  lawful  for  the  said  speaker,  and 
he  is  hereby  required,  to  sign  an  order  on 
the  provincial  treasurer  for  the  payment 
of  two  thousand  pounds,  in  two  yearly 
payments,  to  the  treasurer  of  the  said  hos- 
pital, to  be  applied  to  the  founding,  build- 
ing, and  finishing  of  the  same." 

This  condition  carried  the  bill  through; 
for  the  members  who  had  opposed  the 
grant,  and  now  conceived  they  might 
have  the  credit  of  being  charitable  without 
the  expense,  agreed  to  its  passage;  and 
then,  in  soliciting  subscriptions  among  the 
people,  we  urged  the  conditional  promise 
of  the  law  as  an  additional  motive  to  give, 
since  every  man's  donation  would  be 
doubled;  thus  the  clause  worked  both 
ways.  The  subscriptions  accordingly  soon 
exceeded  the  requisite  sum,  and  we  claimed 
and  received  the  public  gift,  which  en- 
abled us  to  carry  the  design  into  execution. 
A  convenient  and  handsome  building  was 
soon  erected;  the  institution  has  by  con- 
stant experience  been  found  useful,  and 
flourishes  to  this  day;  and  I  do  not  re- 
member any  of  my  political  manoeuvres, 
the  success  of  which  gave  me  at  the  time 
more  pleasure,  or  wherein,  after  thinking 
of  it,  I  more  easily  excused  myself  for 
having  made  some  use  of  cunning. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  another 
projector,  the  Rev.  Gilbert  Tennent,  came 
to  me  with  a  request  that  I  would  assist 
him  in  procuring  a  subscription  for  erect- 


ing a  new  meeting-house.  It  was'  to  be 
for  the  use  of  a  congregation  he  had  gath- 
ered among  the  Presbyterians,  who  were 
originally  disciples  of  Mr.  Whitefield. 
Unwilling  to  make  myself  disagreeable 
to  my  fellow-citizens  by  too  frequently 
soliciting  their  contributions,  I  absolutely 
refused.  He  then  desired  I  would  furnish 
him  with  a  list  of  the  names  of  persons  I 
knew  by  experience  to  be  generous  and 
public-spirited.  I  thought  it  would  be 
unbecoming  in  me,  after  their  kind  com- 
pliance with  my  soliictations,  to  mark 
them  out  to  be  worried  by  other  beggars, 
and  therefore  refused  also  to  give  such  a 
list.  He  then  desired  I  would  at  least  give 
him  my  advice.  "That  I  will  readily 
do,"  said  I;  "and,  in  the  first  place,  I  ad- 
vise you  to  apply  to  all  those  whom  you 
know  will  give  something;  next,  to  those 
whom  you  are  uncertain  whether  they  will 
give  anything  or  not,  and  show  them  the 
list  of  those  who  have  given;  and,  lastly,  do 
not  neglect  those  who  you  are  sure  will 
give  nothing,  for  in  some  of  them  you  may 
be  mistaken."  He  laughed  and  thanked 
me,  and  said  he  would  take  my  advice. 
He  did  so,  for  he  asked  of  everybody,  and  he 
obtained  a  much  larger  sum  than  he  ex- 
pected, with  which  he  erected  the  capacious 
and  very  elegant  meeting-house  that 
stands  in  Arch  Street. 

IMPROVING  CITY  STREETS 

OUR  city,  though  laid  out  with  a  beauti- 
ful regularity,  the  streets  large,  straight, 
and  crossing  each  other  at  right  angles, 
had  the  disgrace  of  suffering  those  streets 
to  remain  long  unpaved,  and  in  wet 
weather  the  wheels  of  heavy  carriages 
ploughed  them  into  a  quagmire,  so  that  it 
was  difficult  to  cross  them;  and  in  dry 
weather  the  dust  was  offensive.  I  had 
lived  near  what  was  called  the  Jersey 
Market,  and  saw  with  pain  the  inhabitants 
wading  in  mud  while  purchasing  their 
provisions.  A  strip  of  ground  down  the 
middle  of  that  market  was  at  length 
paved  with  brick,  so  that,  being  once  in 
the  market,  they  had  firm  footing,  but 
were  often  over  shoes  in  dirt  to  get  there. 


BIOGRAPHY 


355 


By  talking  and  writing  on  the  subject,  I 
was  at  length  instrumental  in  getting  the 
street  paved  with  stone  between  the  mar- 
ket and  the  bricked  foot  pavement,  that 
was  on  each  side  next  the  houses.  This, 
for  some  time,  gave  an  easy  access  to  the 
market  dry-shod;  but  the  rest  of  the  street 
not  being  paved,  whenever  a  carriage  came 
out  of  the  mud  upon  this  pavement,  it 
shook  off  and  left  its  dirt  upon  it,  and  it  was 
soon  covered  with  mire,  which  was  not 
removed,  the  city  as  yet  having  no  scav- 
engers. 

After  some  inquiry,  I  found  a  poor,  in- 
dustrious man,  who  was  willing  to  under- 
take keeping  the  pavement  clean,  by 
sweeping  it  twice  a  week,  carrying  off 
the  dirt  from  before  all  the  neighbors' 
doors,  for  the  sum  of  sixpence  per  month, 
to  be  paid  by  each  house.  I  then  wrote 
and  printed  a  paper  setting  forth  the  ad- 
vantages to  the  neighborhood  that  might 
be  obtained  by  this  small  expense;  the 
greater  ease  in  keeping  our  houses  clean, 
so  much  dirt  not  being  brought  in  by 
people's  feet;  the  benefit  to  the  shops 
by  more  custom,  etc.,  etc.,  as  buyers  could 
more  easily  get  at  them;  and  by  not  hav- 
ing, in  windy  weather,  the  dust  blown  in 
upon  their  goods,  etc.,  etc.  I  sent  one  of 
these  papers  to  each  house,  and  hi  a  day 
or  two  went  round  to  see  who  would  sub- 
scribe an  agreement  to  pay  these  six- 
pences; it  was  unanimously  signed,  and 
for  a  tune  well  executed.  All  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  city  were  delighted  with  the 
cleanliness  of  the  pavement  that  sur- 
rounded the  market,  it  being  a  conve- 
nience to  all,  and  this  raised  a  general  desire 
to  have  all  the  streets  paved,  and  made  the 
people  more  willing  to  submit  to  a  tax 
for  that  purpose. 

After  some  time  I  drew  a  bill  for  paving 
the  city,  and  brought  it  into  the  Assembly. 
It  was  just  before  I  went  to  England,  in 
1757,  and  did  not  pass  till  I  was  gone,  and 
then  with  an  alteration  in  the  mode  of 
assessment,  which  I  thought  not  for  the 
better,  but  with  an  additional  provision 
for  lighting  as  well  as  paving  the  streets, 
which  was  a  great  improvement.  It  was 
by  a  private  person,  the  late  Mr.  John 


Clifton,  his  giving  a  sample  of  the  utility 
of  lamps,  by  placing  one  at  his  door,  that 
the  people  were  first  impressed  with  the 
idea  of  enlighting  all  the  city.  The  honor 
of  this  public  benefit  has  also  been  ascribed 
to  me,  but  it  belongs  truly  to  that  gentle- 
man. I  did  but  follow  his  example,  and 
have  only  some  merit  to  claim  respecting 
the  form  of  our  lamps,  as  differing  from  the 
globe  lamps  we  were  at  first  supplied  with 
from  London.  Those  we  found  incon- 
venient in  these  respects:  they  admitted 
no  air  below;  the  smoke,  therefore,  did 
not  readily  go  out  above,  but  circulated 
in  the  globe,  lodged  on  its  inside,  and  soon 
obstructed  the  light  they  were  intended 
to  afford;  giving,  besides,  the  daily  trouble 
of  wiping  them  clean;  and  an  accidental 
stroke  on  one  of  them  would  demolish  it 
and  render  it  totally  useless.  I  therefore 
suggested  the  composing  them  of  four  flat 
panes,  with  a  long  funnel  above  to  draw 
up  the  smoke,  and  crevices  admitting  air 
below,  to  facilitate  the  ascent  of  the  smoke; 
by  this  means  they  were  kept  clean,  and 
did  not  grow  dark  in  a  few  hours,  as  the 
London  lamps  do,  but  continued  bright 
till  morning,  and  an  accidental  stroke 
would  generally  break  but  a  single  pane, 
easily  repaired. 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  that  the 
Londoners  did  not,  from  the  effect  holes 
in  the  bottom  of  the  globe  lamps  used  at 
Vauxhall  have  in  keeping  them  clean, 
learn  to  have  such  holes  in  their  street 
lamps.  But,  these  holes  being  made  for 
another  purpose,  viz.,  to  communicate 
flame  more  suddenly  to  the  wick  by  a 
little  flax  hanging  down  through  them, 
the  other  use,  of  letting  in  air,  seems  not 
to  have  been  thought  of;  and  therefore, 
after  the  lamps  have  been  lit  a  few  hours, 
the  streets  of  London  are  very  poorly 
illuminated. 

The  mention  of  these  improvements 
puts  me  in  mind  of  one  I  proposed,  when 
in  London,  to  Dr.  Fothergill,  who  was 
among  the  best  men  I  have  known,  and  a 
great  promoter  of  useful  projects.  I  had 
observed  that  the  streets,  when  dry,  were 
never  swept,  and  the  light  dust  carried 
away;  but  it  was  suffered  to  accumulate 


356 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


till  wet  weather  reduced  it  to  mud,  and 
then,  after  lying  some  days  so  deep  on  the 
pavement  that  there  was  no  crossing  but 
in  paths  kept  clean  by  poor  people  with 
brooms,  it  was  with  great  labor  raked 
together  and  thrown  up  into  carts  open 
above,  the  sides  of  which  suffered  some 
of  the  slush  at  every  jolt  on  the  pavement 
to  shake  out  and  fall,  sometimes  to  the 
annoyance  of  foot-passengers.  The  reason 
given  for  not  sweeping  the  dusty  streets 
was,  that  the  dust  would  fly  into  the  win- 
dows of  shops  and  houses. 

An  accidental  occurrence  had  instructed 
me  how  much  sweeping  might  be  done  in 
a  little  time.  I  found  at  my  door  in 
Craven  Street,  one  morning,  a  poor  woman 
sweeping  my  pavement  with  a  birch 
broom;  she  appeared  very  pale  and  feeble, 
as  just  come  out  of  a  fit  of  sickness.  I 
asked  who  employed  her  to  sweep  there; 
she  said,  "Nobody;  but  I  am  very  poor 
and  in  distress,  and  I  sweeps  before  gentle- 
folkses  doors,  and  hopes  they  will  give  me 
something."  I  bid  her  sweep  the  whole 
street  clean,  and  I  would  give  her  a  shill- 
ing; this  was  at  nine  o'clock;  at  twelve 
she  came  for  the  shilling.  From  the 
slowness  I  saw  at  first  in  her  working 
I  could  scarce  believe  that  the  work  was 
done  so  soon,  and  sent  my  servant  to 
examine  it,  who  reported  that  the  whole 
street  was  swept  perfectly  clean,  and  all 
the  dust  placed  in  the  gutter,  which 
was  in  the  middle;  and  the  next  rain 
washed  it  quite  away,  so  that  the 
pavement  and  even  the  kennel  were 
perfectly  clean. 

I  then  judged  that,  if  that  feeble  woman 
could  sweep  such  a  street  in  three  hours, 
a  strong,  active  man  might  have  done  it 
in  half  the  time.  And  here  let  me  remark 
the  convenience  of  having  but  one  gutter 
in  such  a  narrow  street,  running  down  its 
middle,  instead  of  two,  one  on  each  side, 
near  the  footway;  for  where  all  the  rain 
that  falls  on  a  street  runs  from  the  sides 
and  meets  in  the  middle,  it  forms  there  a 
current  strong  enough  to  wash  away  all 
the  mud  it  meets  with;  but  when  divided 
into  two  channels,  it  is  often  too  weak  to 
cleanse  either,  and  only  makes  the  mud 


it  finds  more  fluid,  so  that  the  wheels  of 
carriages  and  feet  of  horses  throw  and 
dash  it  upon  the  foot-pavement,  which 
is  thereby  rendered  foul  and  slippery,  and 
sometimes  splash  it  upon  those  who  are 
walking.  My  proposal,  communicated 
to  the  good  doctor,  was  as  follows: 

"For  the  more  effectual  cleaning  and 
keeping  clean  the  streets  of  London  and 
Westminster,  it  is  proposed  that  the  sev- 
eral watchmen  be  contracted  with  to  have 
the  dust  swept  up  in  dry  seasons,  and  the 
mud  raked  up  at  other  times,  each  in  the 
several  streets  and  lanes  of  his  round; 
that  they  be  furnished  with  brooms  and 
other  proper  instruments  for  these  pur- 
poses, to  be  kept  at  their  respective  stands, 
ready  to  furnish  the  poor  people  they  may 
employ  in  the  service. 

"That  in  the  dry  summer  months  the 
dust  be  all  swept  up  into  heaps  at  proper 
distances,  before  the  shops  and  windows 
of  houses  are  usually  opened,  when  the 
scavengers,  with  close-covered  carts,  shall 
also  carry  it  all  away. 

"That  the  mud,  when  raked  up,  be  not 
left  in  heaps  to  be  spread  abroad  again 
by  the  wheels  of  carriages  and  trampling 
of  horses,  but  that  the  scavenger!  be 
provided  with  bodies  of  carts,  not  placed 
high  upon  wheels,  but  low  upon  sliders 
with  lattice  bottoms,  which,  being  covered 
with  straw,  will  retain  the  mud  thrown 
into  them,  and  permit  the  water  to  drain 
from  it,  whereby  it  will  become  much 
lighter,  water  making  the  greatest  part 
of  its  weight;  these  bodies  of  carts  to  be 
placed  at  convenient  distances,  and  the 
mud  brought  to  them  in  wheelbarrows; 
they  remaining  where  placed  till  the  mud 
is  drained,  and  then  horses  brought  to 
draw  them  away." 

I  have  since  had  doubts  of  the  practica- 
bility of  the  latter  part  of  this  proposal, 
on  account  of  the  narrowness  of  some 
streets,  and  the  difficulty  of  placing  the 
draining-sleds  so  as  not  to  encumber  too 
much  the  passage;  but  I  am  still  of  opinion 
that  the  former,  requiring  the  dust  to  be 
swept  up  and  carried  away  before  the 
shops  are  open,  is  very  practicable  in  the 
summer,  when  the  days  are  long;  for,  in 


BIOGRAPHY 


357 


walking  through  the  Strand  and  Fleet 
Street  one  morning  at  seven  o'clock,  I 
observed  there  was  not  one  shop  open, 
though  it  had  been  daylight  and  the  sun 
up  above  three  hours;  the  inhabitants  of 
London  choosing  voluntarily  to  live  much 
by  candle-light,  and  sleep  by  sunshine, 
and  yet  often  complain,  a  little  absurdly, 
of  the  duty  on  candles,  and  the  high  price 
of  tallow. 

Some  may  think  these  trifling  matters 
not  worth  minding  or  relating;  but  when 
they  consider  that  though  dust  blown 
into  the  eyes  of  a  single  person,  or  into  a 
single  shop  on  a  windy  day,  is  but  of  small 
importance,  yet  the  great  number  of  the 
instances  in  a  populous  city,  and  its  fre- 
quent repetitions  give  it  weight  and 
consequence,  perhaps  they  will  not  censure 
very  severely  those  who  bestow  some  at- 
tention to  affairs  of  this  seemingly  low 
nature.  Human  felicity  is  produced  not 


so  much  by  great  pieces  of  good  fortune 
that  seldom  happen,  as  by  little  advantages 
that  occur  every  day.  Thus,  if  you  teach 
a  poor  young  man  to  shave  himself,  and 
keep  his  razor  in  order,  you  may  contribute 
more  to  the  happiness  of  his  life  than  in 
giving  him  a  thousand  guineas.  The 
money  may  be  soon  spent,  the  regret  only 
remaining  of  having  foolishly  consumed  it; 
but  in  the  other  case,  he  escapes  the  fre- 
quent vexation  of  waiting  for  barbers,  and 
of  their  sometimes  dirty  fingers,  offensive 
breaths,  and  dull  razors;  he  shaves  when 
most  convenient  to  him,  and  enjoys  daily 
the  pleasure  of  its  being  done  with  a  good 
instrument.  With  these  sentiments  I 
have  hazarded  the  few  preceding  pages, 
hoping  they  may  afford  hints  which  some- 
time or  other  may  be  useful  to  a  city  I 
love,  having  lived  many  years  hi  it  very 
happily,  and  perhaps  to  some  of  our  town? 
in  America. 


VII 
LETTERS 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


TO     THE     RIGHT     HONORABLE     THE     EARL 
OF    CHESTERFIELD* 

February  7,   1755. 

MY  LORD,  I  have  been  lately  informed, 
by  the  proprietor  of  "The  World,"  that 
two  papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is 
recommended  to  the  public,  were  written 
by  your  lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished 
is  an  honor,  which,  being  very  little  ac- 
customed to  favors  from  the  great,  I 
know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  hi  what 
terms  to  acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encourage- 
ment, I  first  visited  your  lordship,  I  was 
overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by 
the  enchantment  of  your  address,  and 
could  not  forbear  to  wish  that  I  might 
boast  myself  Le  vainqueur  du  vainqueur  de 
la  terre; — that  I  might  obtain  that  regard 
for  which  I  saw  the  world  contending;  but 
I  found  my  attendance  so  little  encour- 
aged, that  neither  pride  nor  modesty 
would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  I 
had  once  addressed  your  lordship  hi  public, 
I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing 
which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar 
can  possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I  could; 
and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all 
neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed, 
since  I  waited  in  your  outward  rooms,  or 
was  repulsed  from  your  door;  during  which 
tune  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work 
through  difficulties,  of  which  it  is  useless 
to  complain,  and  have  brought  it,  at  last, 

•When  Samuel  Johnson,  uncouth  and  unkempt,  solicited 
Lord  Chesterfield  for  a  subscription  for  his  projected  "Diction- 
ary of  the  English  Language,"  the  needy  but  sensitive  scholar 
was  rebuffed  at  his  Lordship's  door.  Later  the  elegant  gen- 
tleman endeavored  to  gain  credit  by  some  faint  praise  of  the 
book  after  its  author  had  won  fame  in  the  world,  but  this  manly 
letter  spoke  out  plainly,  forever  breaking  the  hold  of  the  patron 
upon  the  world  of  letters. 


to  the  verge  of  publication,  without  ont 
act  of  assistance,  one  word  of  encourage- 
ment, or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treat- 
ment I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a 
patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  "Virgil"  grew  at  last 
acquainted  with  Love,  and  found  him  a 
native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who 
looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man  strug- 
gling for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has 
reached  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help? 
The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased  to 
take  of  my  labors  had  it  been  early,  had 
been  kind;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I 
am  indifferent  and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till 
I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it;  till  1 
am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope 
it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity,  not  to  con- 
fess obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been 
received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public 
should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a 
patron,  which  Providence  has  enabled  me 
to  do  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with 
so  little  obligation  to  any  favorer  of  learn- 
ing, I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  1 
shall  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with 
less;  for  I  have  been  long  wakened  from 
that  dream  of  hope,  in  which  I  once 
boasted  myself  with  so  much  exultation, 

My  Lord,  your  lordship's  most  humble, 
Most  obedient  servant, 
SAM.  JOHNSON. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

MODEL  OF  A  LETTER  OF  RECOMMENDATION 
OF  A  PERSON  YOU  ARE  UNACQUAINTED  WITH 


SIR, 


PARIS,  2  April,  1777. 


The  bearer  of  this,  who  is  going  to 
America,  presses  me  to  give  him  a  letter 


358 


LETTERS 


359 


of  recommendation,  though  I  know  noth- 
ing of  him,  not  even  his  name.  This  may 
seem  extraordinary,  but  I  assure  you  it  is 
not  uncommon  here.  Sometimes,  in- 
deed, one  unknown  person  brings  another 
equally  unknown,  to  recommend  him;  and 
sometimes  they  recommend  one  another! 
As  to  this  gentleman,  I  must  refer  you  to 
himself  for  his  character  and  merits,  with 
which  he  is  certainly  better  acquainted 
than  I  can  possibly  be.  I  recommend 
him,  hoAvever,  to  those  civilities,  which 
every  stranger,  of  whom  one  knows  no 
harm,  has  a  right  to;  and  I  request  you 
will  do  him  all  the  good  offices,  and  show 
him  all  the  favor,  that,  on  further  acquain- 
tance, you  shall  find  him  to  deserve.  I 
have  the  honor  to  be,  etc. 

CHARLES  LAMB 

TO   THOMAS   MANNING 

24th  Sept.,  1802,  LONDON. 

MY  DEAR  MANNING, — 

Since  the  date  of  my  last  letter  I  have 
been  a  traveller.  A  strong  desire  seized 
me  of  visiting  remote  regions.  My  first 
impulse  was  to  go  and  see  Paris.  It  was  a 
trivial  objection  to  my  aspiring  mind, 
that  I  did  not  understand  a  word  of  the 
language,  since  I  certainly  intend  some- 
tune  in  my  life  to  see  Paris,  and  equally 
certainly  intend  never  to  learn  the  lan- 
guage; therefore  that  could  be  no  objec- 
tion. However,  I  am  very  glad  I  did 
not  go,  because  you  had  left  Paris  (I  see) 
before  I  could  have  set  out.  I  believe 
Stoddart  promising  to  go  with  me  another 
year,  prevented  that  plan.  My  next 
scheme  (for  to  my  restless,  ambitious 
mind  London  was  become  a  bed  of 
thorns)  was  to  visit  the  far-famed  peak  in 
Derbyshire,  where  the  Devil  sits,  they 
say,  without  breeches.  This  my  purer 
mind  rejected  as  indelicate.  And  my  final 
resolve  was,  a  tour  to  the  Lakes.  I  set  out 
with  Mary  to  Keswick,  without  giving 
Coleridge  any  notice,  for  my  time,  being 
precious,  did  not  admit  of  it.  He  re- 
ceived us  with  all  the  hospitality  in  the 
world,  and  gave  up  his  time  to  show  us  all 


the  wonders  of  the  country.  He  dwells 
upon  a  small  hill  by  the  side  of  Keswick, 
in  a  comfortable  house,  quite  enveloped 
on  all  sides  by  a  net  of  mountains:  great 
floundering  bears  and  monsters  they 
seemed,  all  couchant  and  asleep.  We  got 
in  in  the  evening,  travelling  in  a  post- 
chaise  from  Penrith,  in  the  midst  of  a 
gorgeous  sunshine,  which  transmuted  all 
the  mountains  into  colors,  purple,  &c., 
&c.  We  thought  we  had  got  into  fairy- 
land. But  that  went  off  (as  it  never 
came  again;  while  we  stayed  we  had  no 
more  fine  sunsets;)  and  we  entered  Cole- 
ridge's comfortable  study  just  in  the  dusk, 
when  the  mountains  were  all  dark  with 
clouds  upon  their  heads.  Such  an  im- 
pression I  never  received  from  objects  of 
sight  before,  nor  do  I  suppose  I  can  ever 
again.  Glorious  creatures,  fine  old  fellows, 
Skiddaw,  &c.,  I  never  shall  forget  ye, 
how  ye  lay  about  that  night,  like  an  in- 
trenchment;  gone  to  bed,  as  it  seemed, 
for  the  night,  but  promising  that  ye  were 
to  be  seen  in  the  morning.  Coleridge 
had  got  a  blazing  fire  in  his  study;  which  is 
a  large,  antique,  ill-shaped  room,  with  an 
old-fashioned  organ,  never  played  upon, 
big  enough  for  a  church,  shelves  of  scat- 
tered folios,  an  ^Eolian  harp,  and  an  old 
sofa,  half  bed,  &c.  And  all  looking  out 
upon  the  last  fading  view  of  Skiddaw, 
and  his  broad-breasted  brethren:  what  a 
night!  Here  we  stayed  three  full  weeks, 
in  which  tune  I  visited  Wordsworth's 
cottage,  where  we  stayed  a  day  or  two 
with  the  Clarksons,  (good  people,  and 
most  hospitable,  at  whose  house  we  tar- 
ried one  day  and  night,)  and  saw  Lloyd. 
The  Wordsworths  were  gone  to  Calais. 
They  have  since  been  in  London,  and  past 
much  time  with  us:  he  is  now  gone  into 
Yorkshire  to  be  married.  So  we  have  seen 
Keswick,  Grasmere,  Amblesidc,  Ulswater, 
(where  the  Clarksons  live,)  and  a  place 
at  the  other  end  of  Ulswater;  I  forget  the 
name:  to  which  we  travelled  on  a  very 
sultry  day,  over  the  middle  of  Helvellyn. 
We  have  clambered  up  to  the  top  of 
Skiddaw,  and  I  have  waded  up  the  bed  of 
Lodore.  In  fine,  I  have  satisfied  myself 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  that  which 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


tourists  call  romantic,  which  I  very  much 
suspected  before:  they  make  such  a  splut- 
tering about  it,  and  toss  their  splendid 
epithets  around  them,  till  they  give  as 
dim  a  light  as  at  four  o'clock  next  morning 
the  lamps  do  after  an  illumination. 
Mary  was  excessively  tired  when  she  got 
about  half-way  up  Skiddaw,  but  we  came 
to  a  cold  rill  (than  which  nothing  can  be 
imagined  more  cold,  running  over  cold 
stones,)  and  with  the  reinforcement  of  a 
draught  of  cold  water,  she  surmounted  it 
most  manfully.  Oh,  its  fine  black  head, 
and  the  bleak  air  atop  of  it,  with  a  pros- 
pect of  mountains  all  about  and  about, 
making  you  giddy;  and  then  Scotland  afar 
off,  and  the  border  countries  so  famous  in 
song  and  ballad!  It  was  a  day  that  will 
stand  out,  like  a  mountain,  I  am  sure,  in 
my  life.  But  I  am  returned,  (I  have  now 
been  come  home  near  three  weeks:  I  was 
a  month  out,)  and  you  cannot  conceive 
the  degradation  I  felt  at  first,  from  being 
accustomed  to  wander  free  as  air  among 
mountains,  and  bathe  hi  rivers  without 
being  controlled  by  anyone,  to  come  home 
and  work.  I  felt  very  little.  I  had  been 
dreaming  I  was  a  very  great  man.  But 
that  is  going  off,  and  I  find  I  shall  conform 
in  time  to  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  has 
pleased  God  to  call  me.  Besides,  after 
all,  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand  are  better 
places  to  live  in  for  good  and  all  than 
amidst  Skiddaw.  Still,  I  turn  back  to 
those  great  places  where  I  wandered  about, 
participating  in  their  greatness.  After  all, 
I  could  not  live  in  Skiddaw.  I  could 
spend  a  year,  two,  three  years  among 
them,  but  I  must  have  a  prospect  of  seeing 
Fleet  Street  at  the  end  of  that  time,  or  I 
should  mope  and  pine  away,  I  know. 
Still,  Skiddaw  is  a  fine  creature.  My 
habits  are  changing,  I  think,  i.e.,  from 
drunk  to  sober.  Whether  I  shall  be 
happy  or  not  remains  to  be  proved.  I 
shall  certainly  be  more  happy  in  a  morn- 
ing; but  whether  I  shall  not  sacrifice  the 
fat,  and  the  marrow,  and  the  kidneys,  i.e., 
the  night,  glorious  care-drowning  night, 
that  heals  all  our  wrongs,  pours  wine  into 
our  mortifications,  changes  the  scene  from 
indifferent  and  flat  to  bright  and  brilliant! 


O  Manning,  if  I  should  have  formed  a  dia- 
bolical resolution,  by  the  time  you  come  to 
England,  of  not  admitting  any  spirituous 
liquors  into  my  house,  will  you  be  my 
guest  on  such  shameworthy  terms?  Is 
life,  with  such  limitations,  worth  trying? 
The  truth  is,  that  my  liquors  bring  a  nest 
of  friendly  harpies  about  my  house,  who 
consume  me.  This  is  a  pitiful  tale  to  be 
read  at  St.  Gothard,  but  it  is  just  now 
nearest  my  heart.  Fenwick  is  a  ruined 
man.  He  is  hiding  himself  from  his 
creditors,  and  has  sent  his  wife  and 
children  into  the  country.  Fell,  my  other 
drunken  companion,  (that  has  been: 
nam  hie  ccestus  artemque  repono,)  is 
turned  editor  of  a  Naval  Chronicle. 
Godwin  continues  a  steady  friend,  though 
the  same  facility  does  not  remain  of  visiting 

him  often.    That  has  detached 

Marshall  from  his  house;  Marshall,  the 
man  who  went  to  sleep  when  the  "Ancient 
Mariner"  was  reading;  the  old,  steady, 
unalterable  friend  of  the  Professor.  Hoi- 
croft  is  not  yet  come  to  town.  I  expect 
to  see  him  and  will  deliver  your  message. 
Things  come  crowding  in  to  say,  and  no 
room  for  'em.  Some  things  are  too  little 
to  be  told,  i.e.,  to  have  a  preference; 
some  are  too  big  and  circumstantial. 
Thanks  for  yours,  which  was  most  deli- 
cious. Would  I  had  been  with  you,  be- 
nighted, &c.!  I  fear  my  head  is  turned 
with  wandering.  I  shall  never  be  the 
same  acquiescent  being.  Farewell.  Write 
again  quickly,  for  I  shall  not  like  to  haz- 
ard a  letter,  not  knowing  where  the 
fates  have  carried  you.  Farewell,  my 
dear  fellow. 

C.  LAMB. 

TO  THOMAS  MANNING 
[A  HOAXING  LETTER] 

Dec.  25th,  1815. 

DEAR  OLD  FRIEND  AND  ABSENTEE, — 

This  is  Christmas  Day  1815  with  us; 
what  it  may  be  with  you  I  don't  know, 
the  i2th  of  June  next  year  perhaps;  and 
if  it  should  be  the  consecrated  season  with 
you,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  keep  it 


LETTERS 


You  have  no  turkeys;  you  would  not 
desecrate  the  festival  by  offering  up  a 
withered  Chinese  Bantam,  instead  of  the 
savory  grand  Norfolcian  holocaust,  that 
smokes  all  around  my  nostrils  at  this 
moment  from  a  thousand  firesides.  Then 
what  puddings  have  you?  Where  will 
you  get  holly  to  stick  in  your  churches,  or 
churches  to  stick  your  dried  tea-leaves 
(that  must  be  the  substitute)  hi?  What 
memorials  you  can  have  of  the  holy  time, 
I  see  not.  A  chopped  missionary  or 
two  may  keep  up  the  thin  idea  of  Lent  and 
the  wilderness;  but  what  standing  evi- 
dence have  you  of  the  Nativity?  'Tis 
our  rosy-cheeked,  home-stalled  divines, 
whose  faces  shine  to  the  tune  of  "Unto 
us  a  child  is  born,"  faces  fragrant  with 
the  mince-pies  of  half  a  century,  that 
alone  can  authenticate  the  cheerful  mys- 
tery. I  feel  my  bowels  refreshed  with 
the  holy  tide;  my  zeal  is  great  against  the 
unedified  heathen.  Down  with  the  Pa- 
godas— down  with  the  idols — Ching- 
chong-fo — and  his  foolish  priesthood! 
Come  out  of  Babylon,  O  my  friend!  for 
her  tune  is  come;  and  the  child  that  is 
native,  and  the  Proselyte  of  her  gates, 
shall  kindle  and  smoke  together!  And 
in  sober  sense  what  makes  you  so  long 
from  among  us,  Manning?  You  must 
not  expect  to  see  the  same  England  again 
which  you  left. 

Empires  have  been  overturned,  crowns 
trodden  into  dust,  the  face  of  the  western 
world  quite  changed.  Your  friends  have 
all  got  old — those  you  left  blooming;  my- 
self, (who  am  one  of  the  few  that  remember 
you,)  those  golden  hairs  which  you  recol- 
lect my  taking  a  pride  in,  turned  to  silvery 
and  grey.  Mary  has  been  dead  and  buried 
many  years:  she  desired  to  be  buried  in 
the  silk  gown  you  sent  her.  Rickman, 
that  you  remember  active  and  strong, 
now  walks  out  supported  by  a  servant 
maid  and  a  stick.  Martin  Burney  is  a 
very  old  man.  The  other  day  an  aged 
woman  knocked  at  my  door,  and  pre- 
tended to  my  acquaintance.  It  was  long 
before  I  had  the  most  distant  cognition 
of  her;  but  at  last,  together,  we  made  her 
out  to  be  Louisa,  the  daughter  of  Mrs. 


Topham,  formerly  Mrs.  Morton,  who  had 
been  Mrs.  Reynolds,  formerly  Mrs.  Ken- 
ney,  whose  first  husband  was  Holcroft, 
the  dramatic  writer  of  the  last  century. 
St.  Paul's  church  is  a  heap  of  ruins;  the 
Monument  isn't  half  so  high  as  you  knew 
it,  divers  parts  being  successively  taken 
down  which  the  ravages  of  time  had 
rendered  dangerous;  the  horse  at  Charing 
Cross  is  gone,  no  one  knows  whither;  and 
all  this  has  taken  place  while  you  have 
been  settling  whether  Ho-hing-tong  should 
be  spelt  with  a — ,  or  a—.  For  aught  I 
see  you  might  almost  as  well  remain 
where  you  are,  and  not  come  like  a  Struld- 
brug  into  a  world  where  few  were  born 
when  you  went  away.  Scarce  here  and 
there  one  will  be  able  to  make  out  your 
face.  All  your  opinions  will  be  out  of 
date,  your  jokes  obsolete,  your  puns 
rejected  with  fastidiousness  as  wit  of  the 
last  age.  Your  way  of  mathematics  has 
already  given  way  to  a  new  method,  which 
after  all  is  I  beh'eve  the  old  doctrine  of 
Maclaurin,  new-vamped  up  with  what  he 
borrowed  of  the  negative  quantity  of 
fluxions  from  Euler. 

Poor  Godwin!  I  was  passing  his 
tomb  the  other  day  in  Cripplegate  church- 
yard. There  are  some  verses  upon  it 

written  by  Miss ,  which  if  I  thought 

good  enough  I  would  send  you.  He  was 
one  of  those  who  would  have  hailed  your 
return,  not  with  boisterous  shouts  and 
clamors,  but  with  the  complacent  gratula- 
tions  of  a  philosopher  anxious  to  promote 
knowledge  as  leading  to  happiness;  but 
his  systems  and  his  theories  are  ten  feet 
deep  in  Cripplegate  mould.  Coleridge  is 
just  dead,  having  lived  just  long 'enough 
to  close  the  eyes  of  Wordsworth,  who  paid 
the  debt  to  Nature  but  a  week  or  two 
before.  Poor  Col,  but  two  days  before 
he  died  he  wrote  to  a  bookseller,  proposing 
an  epic  poem  on  the  "Wanderings  of 
Cam,"  in  twenty-four  books.  It  is  said 
he  has  left  behind  him  more  than  forty 
thousand  treatises  in  criticism,  meta- 
physics, and  divinity,  but  few  of  them  in  a 
state  of  completion.  They  are  now  des- 
tined, perhaps,  to  wrap  up  spices.  You 
see  what  mutations  the  busy  hand  of  Time 


362 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


has  produced,  while  you  have  consumed 
in  foolish  voluntary  exile  that  time  which 
might  have  gladdened  your  friends — 
benefited  your  country;  but  reproaches  are 
useless.  Gather  up  the  wretched  reli- 
ques,  my  friend,  as  fast  <is  you  can,  and 
come  to  your  old  home.  I  will  rub  my 
eyes  and  try  to  recognise  you.  We  will 
shake  withered  hands  together,  and  talk 
of  old  things — of  St.  Mary's  Church  and 
the  barber's  opposite,  where  the  young 
students  in  mathematics  used  to  assemble. 
Poor  Crips,  that  kept  it  afterwards,  set 
up  a  fruiterer's  shop  in  Trumpington 
Street,  and  for  aught  I  know  resides  there 
still,  for  I  saw  the  name  up  in  the  last 
journey  I  took  there  with  my  sister  just 
before  she  died.  I  suppose  you  heard 
that  I  had  left  the  India  House,  and  gone 
into  the  Fishmongers'  Almshouses  over 
the  bridge.  I  have  a  little  cabin  there, 
small  and  homely,  but  you  shall  be  wel- 
come to  it.  You  like  oysters,  and  to 
open  them  yourself;  I'll  get  you  some  if 
you  come  in  oyster  tune.  Marshall, 
Godwin's  old  friend,  is  still  alive,  and 
talks  of  the  faces  you  used  to  make. 
Come  as  soon  as  you  can. 

C.  LAMB. 


TO  THE  SAME 
[CORRECTING  THE  PRECEDING] 

Dec.  26th,  1815. 
DEAR  MANNING, — 

Following  your  brother's  example,  I 
have  just  ventured  one  letter  to  Canton, 
and  am  now  hazarding  another  (not  ex- 
actly a  duplicate)  to  St.  Helena.  The 
first  was  full  of  unprobable  romantic 
fictions,  fitting  the  remoteness  of  the 
mission  it  goes  upon;  in  the  present  I  mean 
to  confine  myself  nearer  to  truth  as  you 
come  nearer  home.  A  correspondence 
with  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth 
necessarily  involves  in  it  some  heat  of 
fancy,  it  sets  the  brain  agoing,  but  I  can 
think  on  the  half-way  house  tranquilly. 
Your  friends  then  are  not  all  dead  or 
grown  forgetful  of  you  through  old  age,  as 
that  lying  letter  asserted,  anticipating 
rather  what  must  happen  if  you  kept 


tarrying  on  forever  on  the  skirts  of  creation, 
as  there  seemed  a  danger  of  your  doing; 
but  they  are  all  tolerably  well  and  in  full 
and  perfect  comprehension  of  what  is 
meant  by  Manning's  coming  home  again. 
Mrs.  Kenny  never  lets  her  tongue  run  riot 
more  than  in  remembrances  of  you. 
Fanny  expends  herself  in  phrases  that  can 
only  be  justified  by  her  romantic  nature. 
Mary  reserves  a  portion  of  your  silk,  not 
to  be  buried  in,  (as  the  false  nuncio  asserts) 
but  to  make  up  spick  and  span  into  a 
bran-new  gown  to  wear  when  you  come. 
I  am  the  same  as  when  you  knew  me, 
almost  to  a  surfeiting  identity.  This 
very  night  I  am  going  to  leave  of  tobacco  I 
Surely  there  must  be  some  other  world 
in  which  this  unconquerable  purpose  shall 
be  realized.  The  soul  hath  not  her  gen- 
erous aspirings  implanted  in  her  in  vain. 
One  that  you  knew,  and  I  think  the  only 
one  of  those  friends  we  knew  much  of  in 
common,  has  died  in  earnest.  Poor  Pris- 
cilla!  Her  brother  Robert  is  also  dead, 
and  several  of  the  grown-up  brothers  and 
sisters,  in  the  compass  of  a  very  few  years. 
Death  has  not  otherwise  meddled  much 
in  families  that  I  know.  Not  but  he  has 
his  eye  upon  us,  and  is  whetting  his  feath- 
ered dart  every  instant,  as  you  see  him 
truly  pictured  in  that  impressive  moral 
picture,  "The  good  man  at  the  hour  of 
death."  I  have  in  trust  to  put  in  the 
post  four  letters  from  Diss,  and  one  from 
Lynn,  to  St.  Helena,  which  I  hope  will 
accompany  this  safe,  and  one  from  Lynn, 
and  the  one  before  spoken  of  from  me,  to 
Canton.  But  we  all  hope  that  these 
letters  may  be  waste  paper.  I  don't 
know  why  I  have  forborne  writing  so  long; 
but  it  is  such  a  forlorn  hope  to  send  a 
scrap  of  paper  straggling  over  wide  oceans ! 
And  yet  I  know,  when  you  come  home,  I 
shall  have  you  sitting  before  me  at  our 
fireside  just  as  if  you  had  never  been  away. 
In  such  an  instant  does  the  return  of  a 
person  dissipate  all  the  weight  of  imaginary 
perplexity  from  distance  of  time  and  space ! 
I'll  promise  you  good  oysters.  Cory  is 
dead  that  kept  the  shop  opposite  St. 
Dunstan's;  but  the  tougher  materials  of 
the  shop  survive  the  perishing  frame  of  its 


LETTERS 


363 


keeper.  Oysters  continue  to  flourish  there 
under  as  good  auspices.  Poor  Cory! 
But  if  you  will  absent  yourself  twenty 
years  together,  you  must  not  expect 
numerically  the  same  population  to  con- 
gratulate your  return  which  wetted  the 
sea-beach  with  their  tears  when  you  went 
away.  Have  you  recovered  the  breathless 
stone-staring  astonishment  into  which 
you  must  have  been  thrown  upon  learning 
at  landing  that  an  Emperor  of  France  was 
living  at  St.  Helena?  What  an  event  in 
the  solitude  of  the  seas!  like  finding  a 
fish's  bone  at  the  top  of  Plinlimmon;  but 
these  things  are  nothing  in  our  western 
world.  Novelties  cease  to  affect.  Come 
and  try  what  your  presence  can. 

God  bless  you. — Your  old  friend, 
C.  LAMB. 

TO  P.   G.  PATMORE 

LONDRES,  Julie  19,  1827. 
DEAR  P. — 

I  am  so  poorly.  I  have  been  to  a  fu- 
neral, where  I  made  a  pun,  to  the  con- 
sternation of  the  rest  of  the  mourners. 
And  we  had  wine.  I  can't  describe  to  you 
the  howl  which  the  widow  set  up  at  proper 
intervals.  Dash  could,  for  it  was  not 
unlike  what  he  makes. 

The  letter  I  sent  you  was  one  directed 

to  the  care  of  E.  W ,  India  House,  for 

Mrs.  H.     Which  Mrs.  H I  don't  yet 

know;  but  A has  taken  it  to  France 

on  speculation.  Really  it  is  embarrassing. 
There  is  Mrs.  present  H.,  Mrs.  late  H.,  and 
Mrs.  John  H.,  and  to  which  of  the  three 
Mrs.  Wigginses  it  appertains,  I  know  not. 
I  wanted  to  open  it,  but  't  is  transporta- 
tion. 

I  am  sorry  you  are  plagued  about  your 
book.  I  would  strongly  recommend  you 
to  take  for  one  story  Massinger's  Old  Law. 
It  is  exquisite.  I  can  think  of  no  other. 

Dash  is  frightful  this  morning.  He 
whines  and  stands  up  on  his  hind  legs. 
He  misses  Becky,  who  is  gone  to  town. 
I  took  him  to  Barnet  the  other  day,  and  he 
couldn't  eat  his  vittles  after  it.  Pray  God 
his  intellectuals  be  not  slipping. 

Mary  is  gone  out  for  some  soles.    I 


suppose  't  is  no  use  to  ask  you  to  come  and 
partake  of  'em;  else  there  is  a  steam 
vessel. 

I  am  doing  a  tragi-comedy  in  two  acts, 
and  have  got  on  tolerably;  but  it  will  be 
refused,  or  worse.  I  never  had  luck  with 
anything  my  name  was  put  to. 

O,  I  am  so  poorly!  I  -waked  it  at  my 
cousin's  the  bookbinder,  who  is  now  with 
God;  or,  if  he  is  not,  't  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

We  hope  the  frank  wines  do  not  disagree 
with  Mrs.  P .  By  the  way,  I  like  her. 

Did  you  ever  taste  frogs?  Get  them 
if  you  can.  They  are  like  little  Lilliput 
rabbits,  only  a  thought  nicer. 

How  sick  I  am! — not  of  the  world,  but 
of  the  widow's  shrub.  She  's  sworn  under 
£6,000,  but  I  think  she  perjured  herself. 
She  howls  in  E  la,  and  I  comfort  her  in 
B  flat.  You  understand  music? 

If  you  hav'n't  got  Massinger,  you  have 
nothing  to  do  but  go  to  the  first  Biblio- 
theque  you  can  light  upon  at  Boulogne, 
and  ask  for  it  (Gilford's  edition);  and  if 
they  hav'n't  got  it  you  can  have  "  Athalie  " 
par  Monsieur  Racine,  and  make  the  best 
of  it.  But  that  Old  Law  is  delicious. 

"No  shrimps!"  (that's  in  answer  to 
Mary's  question  about  how  the  soles  are 
to  be  done). 

I  am  uncertain  where  this  wandering 
letter  may  reach  you.  What  you  mean 
by  Poste  Restante,  God  knows.  Do  you 
mean  I  must  pay  the  postage?  So  I  do,  to 
Dover. 

We  had  a  merry  passage  with  the  widow 
at  the  Commons.  She  was  howling — part 
howling  and  part  giving  directions  to  the 
proctor — when  crash!  down  went  my  sister 
through  a  crazy  chair,  and  made  the  clerks 
grin,  and  I  grinned,  and  the  widow  tittered, 
and  then  I  knew  that  she  was  not  incon- 
solable. Mary  was  more  frightened  than 
hurt. 

She'd  make  a  good  match  for  any  body 
(by  she  I  mean  the  widow). 

"If  he  bring  but  a  relict  away, 
He  is  happy,  nor  heard  to  complain." 
SHENSTONE. 

Proctor  has  got  a  wen  growing  out  at 
the  nape  of  his  neck,  which  his  wife  wants 


364 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


him  to  have  cut  off;  but  I  think  it  is  rather 
an  agreeable  excrescence:  like  his  poetry, 
redundant.  Hone  has  hanged  himself 
for  debt.  Godwin  was  taken  up  for 
picking  pockets.  Moxon,  has  fallen  in 
love  with  Emma,  our  nut-brown  maid. 
Becky  takes  to  bad  courses.  Her  father 
was  blown  up  in  a  steam  machine.  The 
coroner  found  it  "insanity."  I  should 
not  like  him  to  sit  on  my  letter. 

Do  you  observe  my  direction.  Is  it 
Gallic-classical?  Do  try  and  get  some 
frogs.  You  must  ask  for  "  grenouilles " 
(green  eels).  They  don't  understand 
"frogs,"  though  't  is  a  common  phrase 
with  us. 

If  you  go  through  Bulloign  (Boulogne,) 
inquire  if  old  Godfrey  is  living,  and  how 
he  got  home  from  the  crusades.  He  must 
be  a  very  old  man. 

If  there  is  anything  new  in  politics  or 
literature  in  France,  keep  it  till  I  see  you 
again,  for  I'm  in  no  hurry.  Chatty 
Briant*  is  well,  I  hope. 

I  think  I  have  no  more  news;  only  give 
both  our  loves  (all  three,  says  Dash,)  to 

Mrs.  P ,  and  bid  her  get  quite  well, 

as  I  am  at  present,  bating  qualms,  and  the 
grief  incident  to  losing  a  valuable  relation. 

C.  L. 


LORD  BYRON 

TO   THOMAS  MOORE 

RAVENNA,  Dec.  9,  1820. 

I  open  my  letter  to  tell  you  a  fact,  which 
will  show  the  state  of  this  country  better 
than  I  can.  The  commandant  of  the 
troops  is  now  lying  dead  in  my  house.  He 
was  shot  at  a  little  past  eight  o'clock, 
about  two  hundred  paces  from  my  door. 
I  was  putting  on  my  great-coat  to  visit 
Madame  la  Contessa  G.  when  I  heard  the 
shot.  On  coming  into  the  hall,  I  found  all 
my  servants  on  the  balcony,  exclaiming 
that  a  man  was  murdered.  I  immediately 
ran  down,  calling  on  Tita  (the  bravest  of 
them)  to  follow  me.  The  rest  wanted  to 
hinder  us  from  going,  as  it  is  the  custom 

'Chateaubriand. 


for  every  body  here,  it  seems,  to  run 
away  from  "the  stricken  deer." 

However,  down  we  ran,  and  found  him 
lying  on  his  back,  almost,  if  not  quite, 
dead,  with  five  wounds;  one  in  the  heart, 
two  in  the  stomach,  one  in  the  finger,  and 
the  other  in  the  arm.  Some  soldiers 
cocked  their  guns,  and  wanted  to  hinder 
me  from  passing.  However,  we  passed, 
and  I  found  Diego,  the  adjutant,  crying 
over  him  like  a  child — a  surgeon,  who  said 
nothing  of  his  profession — a  priest,  sobbing 
a  frightened  prayer — and  the  command- 
ant, all  this  time,  on  his  back,  on  the  hard, 
cold  pavement,  without  light  or  assistance, 
or  anything  around  him  but  confusion 
and  dismay. 

As  nobody  could,  or  would,  do  anything 
but  howl  and  pray  and  as  no  one  would 
stir  a  finger  to  move  him,  for  fear  of  con- 
sequences, I  lost  my  patience — made  my 
servant  and  a  couple  of  the  mob  take  up 
the  body — sent  off  two  soldiers  to  the 
guard — despatched  Diego  to  the  Cardinal 
with  the  news,  and  had  the  commandant 
carried  upstairs  into  my  own  quarter. 
But  it  was  too  late,  he  was  gone — not  at 
all  disfigured — bled  inwardly — not  above 
an  ounce  or  two  came  out. 

I  had  him  partly  stripped — made  the 
surgeon  examine  him,  and  examined  him 
myself.  He  had  been  shot  by  cut  balls  or 
slugs.  I  felt  one  of  the  slugs,  which  had 
gone  through  him,  all  but  the  skin. 
Everybody  conjectures  why  he  was  killed, 
but  no  one  knows  how.  The  gun  was 
found  close  by  him — an  old  gun,  half 
filed  down. 

He  only  said,  0  Dio  I  and  Gesu  I  two 
or  three  times,  and  appeared  to  have  suf- 
fered very  little.  Poor  fellow!  he  was  a 
brave  officer,  but  had  made  himself  much 
disliked  by  the  people.  I  knew  him  per- 
sonally, and  had  met  with  him  often  at 
conversazioni  and  elsewhere.  My  house 
is  full  of  soldiers,  dragoons,  doctors,  priests, 
and  all  kinds  of  persons, — though  I  have 
now  cleared  it,  and  clapt  sentinels  at  the 
doors.  To-morrow  the  body  is  to  be 
moved.  The  town  is  in  the  greatest  con- 
fusion, as  you  may  suppose. 

You  are  to  know  that,  if  I  had  not  had 


LETTERS 


365 


the  body  moved,  they  would  have  left 
him  there  till  morning  in  the  street,  for 
fear  of  consequences.  I  would  not  choose 
to  let  even  a  dog  die  in  such  a  manner, 
without  succor: — and,  as  for  conse- 
quences, I  care  for  none  in  a  duty. 

Yours,  etc. 

P.S. — The  lieutenant  on  duty  by  the 
body  is  smoking  his  pipe  with  great  com- 
posure.— A  queer  people  this. 


JOSEPH  MAZZINI 

LETTER  TO  HIS  PUBLISHERS  IN   1847  CON- 
CERNING AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  CHARLES 
ALBERT,    KING    OF    SARDINIA,    IN 
l83I. 

I  DO  NOT  BELIEVE  THAT  THE  SALVATION 
OF  ITALY  CAN  BE  ACHIEVED  NOW  OR  AT 
ANY  FUTURE  TIME,  BY  PRINCE,  POPE,  OR 
KING. 

For  a  king  to  unite,  and  give  independ- 
ence to  Italy,  he  must  possess  alike 
genius,  Napoleonic  energy,  and  the  highest 
virtue.  Genius,  in  order  to  conceive  the 
idea  of  the  enterprise  and  the  conditions 
of  victory ;  energy — not  to  front  its  dangers, 
for  to  a  man  of  genius  they  would  be 
few  and  brief — but  to  dare  to  break  at 
once  with  every  tie  of  family  or  alliance, 
and  the  habits  and  necessities  of  an  exist- 
ence distinct  and  removed  from  that  of 
the  people,  and  to  extricate  himself 
both  from  the  web  of  diplomacy  and  the 
counsels  of  wicked  or  cowardly  advisers; 
virtue  enough  voluntarily  to  renounce  a 
portion  at  least  of  his  actual  power;  for  it 
is  only  by  redeeming  them  from  slavery 
that  a  people  may  be  aroused  to  battle 
and  sacrifice. 

And  these  are  the  qualities  unknown 
to  those  who  govern  at  the  present  day — 
qualities  forbidden  alike  to  them  by  their 
education,  their  habits  of  ingrained  dis- 
trust, and — as  I  believe — by  God  himself, 
\vho  is  preparing  the  way  for  the  era  of 
the  peoples;  and  I  held  these  convictions 
even  at  the  time  when  I  wrote  that  letter. 
Charles  Albert  then  ascended  the  throne 
in  the  vigor  of  manhood,  the  memory  of 


the  solemn  promises  of  1821  still  freshly 
stamped  on  his  heart,  amid  the  last  echoes 
of  the  insurrection  which  had  taught  him 
the  wants  and  wishes  of  the  Italians,  and 
the  first  throbs  of  that  almost  universal 
hope  in  him,  which  should  have  taught 
him  his  duty. 

I  made  myself  the  interpreter  of  that 
hope,  in  which  I  did  not  share. 

Should  you  decide  to  republish  these 
pages  of  mine,  they  may  at  least  serve  to 
convince  those  who  now  style  themselves 
the  creators  and  organizers  of  a  new  party, 
that  they  are  but  feebly  reviving  the  illu- 
sions of  sixteen  years  ago,  and  that  all 
which  they  now  attempt  has  been  already 
tried  by  the  national  party,  ere  they  were 
taught  by  bitter  deceptions  and  torrents 
of  fraternal  blood,  to  declare  to  their 
countrymen  Your  sole  hope  is  in  God  andr 
in  yourselves. — Yours, 

JOSEPH  MAZZINI. 

A  LETTER  OF  PROTEST  TO  "LA  TRIBUNA/" 
A    REPUBLICAN    ORGAN    OF    FRANCE, 
ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  HIS  EXILE 
FROM  FRANCE,  2O  SEP- 
TEMBER,   1832. 

IN  THE  presence  of  an  exceptional  system,, 
wherein  the  rights  of  individual  liberty  and 
domicile  are  infringed  by  an  unjust  law 
still  more  unjustly  applied;  wherein  ac- 
cusation, judgment,  and  condemnation, 
all  emanate  from  one  and  the  same  power, 
and  no  possibility  is  allowed  of  defence; 
wherein  the  eye  meets  naught  but  exam- 
ples of  tyranny  and  submission  on  every 
side; — it  is  the  duty  of  every  man  possess- 
ing a  sense  of  dignity  to  protest. 

The  object  of  such  protest  is  not  an 
useless  attempt  at  defence,  nor  desire 
of  awaking  sympathy  in  those  who  are 
suffering  under  the  same  evils.  It  is  the 
necessity  felt  of  holding  up  to  infamy  a 
power  which  abuses  its  strength,  and  of 
making  the  crimes  of  the  government 
known  to  the  country  wherein  the  injus- 
tice is  committed;  of  adding  yet  another 
to  the  many  documents  which  will,  sooner 
or  later,  decide  the  people  to  condemn  those 
by  whom  it  is  condemned  and  betrayed. 


366 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


For  these  reasons  I  do  protest. 

The  newspapers  have  published  the 
letter  sent  to  me  by  the  French  Ministry, 
and  the  motives  upon  which  that  order  is 
founded. 

I  am  accused  of  conspiring  for  the 
emancipation  of  my  country,  and  of  seek- 
ing to  arouse  the  Italians  to  that  aim  by 
my  letters  and  printed  publications. 

I  am  accused  of  maintaining  a  corres- 
pondence with  a  Republican  Committee  in 
Paris,  and  of  having — I,  an  Italian  in 
Marseilles,  and  without  means  or  con- 
nections— held  dangerous  communication 
with  the  combatants  of  the  Cloister  of 
St.  Mary. 

I  shall  certainly  not  shrink  from  assum- 
ing the  responsibility  of  the  first  accusa- 
tion. If  the  endeavor  to  spread  useful 
truths  in  my  own  country,  through  the 
medium  of  the  press,  be  conspiracy,  I  do 
conspire.  If  to  exhort  my  fellow-country- 
men not  to  slumber  in  slavery,  but  rather 
to  perish  in  the  struggle  against  it;  to  lie 
in  wait  for,  and  to  seize  the  first  opportu- 
nity of  gaining  a  country,  and  a  national 
government,  be  conspiracy,  I  do  conspire. 

It  is  the  duty  of  every  man  to  con- 
spire for  the  honor  and  salvation  of  his 
brother  man,  and  no  government  assuming 
the  title  of  liberal  has  a  right  to  treat  the 
man  who  fulfils  the  sacred  duty  as  a  crim- 
inal. These  are  principles  which  none 
but  the  men  of  the  State  of  Siege*  will  deny. 

But  what  proofs  are  there  of  the  second 
accusation? 

The  ministerial  dispatches  quote  certain 
passages  from  certain  sequestrated  letters, 
which  they  affirm  to  have  been  written 
by  me  to  friends  in  the  interior. 

These  letters  are  stated  by  the  Ministry 
to  contain  revelations  as  to  the  affair  of 
the  5th  and  6th  of  June.  They  are  said 
to  declare  that  the  incidents  of  those  two 
days  have  done  no  injury  to  the  Republi- 
can party  in  France;  that  the  movement 
failed  simply  because  those  patriots  from 
the  provinces  who  were  to  have  gone  to  Paris 
failed  to  keep  their  word;  that  another  m- 

This  refers  to  the  state  of  siege  in  which  the  city  of  Paris  was 
placed  during  the  insurrection  of  the  $th  and  6ti  of  June  on 
the  occasion  of  the  funeral  of  General  Lamarque, 


surrection  is  being  prepared,  and  will  take 
place  at  no  remote  period;  that  the  throne 
of  Louis  Philippe  is  undermined  on  every 
side;  and,  finally,  that  the  Republican  Com- 
mittee of  Paris  is  aboiit  to  send  five  or  six 
emissaries  to  Italy  in  order  to  organize 
and  cooperate  with  the  party  of  liberty  there. 

Where  are  these  letters?  In  Paris? 
Were  they  sequestered  by  the  French 
Government?  Have  they  ever  been  com- 
municated to  the  accused?  Is  there  any- 
thing in  my  conduct,  in  my  acts,  or  in  my 
correspondence,  tending  to  confirm  the 
assertion  that  these  letters  were  written 
by  me? 

No.  The  quotations  made  from  these 
letters  were  made  by  the  Sardinian 
police,  and  the  originals  are  stated  to  be 
in  the  archives.  The  French  minister  only 
quotes  extracts,  and  those  on  the  testi- 
mony of  others.  But  he  believes  that 
these  statements  are  deserving  of  credence. 

Why?  How?  Does  the 

French  police  possess  one  single  indication 
of  my  having  conspired  against  the  Gov- 
ernment of  France?  Have  I  ever  been 
found  guilty  of  rebellion?  or  detected  in 
the  insurrectionary  ranks? 

While  such  is  the  position  of  things, 
what  course  can  I  pursue? 

It  is  possible  to  demonstrate  the  false- 
hood of  a  special  and  definite  assertion, 
that  may  embrace  the  acts  or  thoughts 
of  a  whole  life.  It  is  not  possible  to  de- 
fend one's  self  against  an  accusation  un- 
supported by  any  description  of  evidence. 

I  demanded  to  have  these  ministerial 
letters  communicated  to  me,  and  was 
refused.  Nothing  therefore  was  left  for 
me  to  do  but  to  deny  the  facts,  and  I  did 
so.  I  denied  the  existence  hi  any  letter 
of  mine  of  the  lines  printed  in  italics, 
which  are  the  only  lines  implying  an  under- 
standing between  me  and  the  French 
Republican  party.  The  rest  are  mere 
observations  and  expressions  of  opinion, 
upon  which  no  act  of  accusation  could  be 
founded. 

I  said  these  things  hi  a  letter  written 
to  the  minister,  dated  the  ist  August. 
I  denied  the  existence  of  the  lines  quoted, 
and  defied  the  French  and  Sardinian  police 


LETTERS 


367 


to  prove  them.  I  demanded  an  inquiry. 
I  demanded  to  be  tried  and  judged. 

The  minister  did  not  condescend  to 
answer  me.  The  Prefect  of  Marseilles, 
who  had  promised  me  to  await  the  reply 
M.  de  Montalivet,  suddenly  sent  me  a 
second  order  to  depart,  and  I  was  com- 
pelled to  submit. 

Such  are  the  facts. 

Men  in  power,  what  is  it  you  hope? 
that  your  shameful  submission  to  the  pre- 
tensions of  the  Holy  Alliance  will  cause  us 
to  betray  our  duty  to  our  country,  or  that 
your  incessant  persecutions  may  at  last 
dishearten  and  weary  us  of  the  sacred 
idea  of  liberty,  which  you  betrayed  on  your 
accession  to  power?  Think  you  that  this 
succession  of  arbitrary  acts  will  enable  you 
to  succeed  in  the  retrograde  mission  you 
have  assumed,  that  you  will  sow  the  seeds 
of  suspicion  and  distrust  in  those  amongst 
whom  the  bond  of  fraternity  is  daily 
gaining  in  strength;  or  do  you  desire  to 
arouse  a  spirit  of  reaction  in  the  patriots 
of  other  lands  against  that  of  France,  the 
fulfilment  of  whose  mission  you  alone 
interrupt? 

Or  do  you  hope,  in  your  abject  coward- 
ice, to  cancel  the  brand  of  infamy  on  your 
brow,  by  chasing  away  the  men  whom 
you  urged  to  the  brink  of  the  abyss,  to 
forsake  them  in  the  moment  of  danger — 
men  whose  presence  in  France  is  a  bitter 
proof  and  perennial  remorse  to  you?  Be- 
lieve it  not.  That  brand  of  shame  will 
never  be  cancelled;  it  is  deepened  every 
day  of  your  rule,  every  day  that  the  voice 
of  an  exile  is  lifted  up  to  curse  you,  and  to 
cry  aloud  unto  you: 

Goon!  You  have  torn  from  us  liberty, 
country,  and  the  very  means  of  existence; 
now  take  from  us  the  power  of  free  speech; 
take  from  us  the  very  air  that  wafts  to  us 
the  perfumed  breath  of  our  own  land; 
take  from  the  exile  his  last  comfort  left, 
the  right  to  gaze  over  the  far  sea,  and  whis- 
per to  himself,  There  lies  Italy.  Go  on! 
go  on  from  one  humiliation  to  another; 
drag  yourselves  to  the  feet  of  Tzar,  Pope, 
or  Metternich;  implore  them  to  grant  you 
yet  a  few  days  of  existence,  and  offer  them 
in  exchange,  now  the  liberty,  and  now  the 


head  of  a  patriot.  Go  on!  proceed  yet 
further  on  the  path  leading  to  ruin  through 
dishonor.  It  is  well  for  the  interest  and 
salvation  of  the  peoples,  that  you  should 
reveal,  in  all  its  hideous  nudity,  a  system 
of  baseness  and  deceit  unequalled  in 
Europe.  It  is  well  for  the  triumph  of  the 
sacred  cause,  that  you  should  demonstrate 
by  your  acts  the  impossibility  of  all  alliance 
between  the  cause  of  the  peoples  and  the 
cause  of  kings. 

But  when  the  measure  shall  be  full; 
when  the  tocsin  of  the  peoples  shall  sound 
the  hour  of  liberty;  when  France  hi  arms 
shall  ask  of  you,  What  use  have  you 
made  of  the  power  with  which  I  entrusted 
you? — then  woe  unto  you!  Peoples 
and  kings  will  alike  repudiate  and  reject 
you. 

You  consigned  your  unsuspecting  and 
defenceless  country  to  the  snares  of  des- 
pots. You  heaped  dishonor  upon  her. 
You  have  impeded  the  progress  of  univer- 
sal association.  You  have  cast  the  liber- 
ties of  the  peoples  into  the  jaws  of  the 
Holy  Alliance.  Through  you,  the  noble 
impulse  given  to  the  spirit  of  fraternity 
by  the  days  of  July  has  been  interrupted; 
the  souls  of  men  have  been  poisoned;  and 
the  hearts  of  the  good  have  been  darkened 
by  distrust. 

And  when  the  victims  of  your  diplo- 
macy, of  your  treacherous  protocols,  ap- 
peared like  specters  before  you  and 
demanded  an  asylum,  you  overwhelmed 
them  with  outrage,  and  drove  them  forth; 
effacing  from  your  code  the  inviolable 
rights  of  misfortune  and  the  duties  of 
hospitality. 

As  for  us — men  of  action,  a  minority 
consecrated  by  misfortune,  and  the  sen- 
tinels on  the  outposts  of  revolution — 
we  bade  solemn  farewell  to  all  the  joys 
and  comforts  of  existence  on  the  day  when 
we  swore  fidelity  to  the  cause  of  the 
oppressed.  Our  hearts  are  unstained  by 
anger  and  injurious  suspicion.  The  gov- 
erning faction  has  nothing  in  common 
with  the  peoples,  who  suffer  like  ourselves. 
Let  us  be  united,  and  close  up  our  ranks. 
The  hour  of  justice  will  arrive  for  all. 
JOSEPH  MAZZINI. 


368 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


LETTER  TO  GENERAL  JOSEPH  HOOfcER 

January  26,  1863. 
GENERAL: 

I  have  placed  you  at  the  head  of  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac.  Of  course  I  have 
done  this  upon  what  appear  to  me  to  be 
sufficient  reasons,  and  yet  I  think  it  best 
for  you  to  know  that  there  are  some  things 
in  regard  to  which  I  am  not  quite  satis- 
fied with  you.  I  believe  you  to  be  a  brave 
and  skillful  soldier,  which  of  course  I  like. 
I  also  believe  you  do  not  mix  politics  with 
your  profession,  in  which  you  are  right. 
You  have  confidence  in  yourself,  which  is 
a  valuable  if  not  an  indispensable  quality. 
You  are  ambitious,  which,  within  reason- 
able bounds,  does  good  rather  than  harm; 
but  I  think  that  during  General  Burn- 
side's  command  of  the  army  you  have 
taken  counsel  of  your  ambition  and 
thwarted  him  as  much  as  you  could,  in 
which  you  did  a  great  wrong  to  the  coun- 
try and  to  a  most  meritorious  and  honor- 
able brother  officer.  I  have  heard,  in 
such  a  way  as  to  believe  it,  of  your  re- 
cently saying  that  both  the  army  and 
the  government  needed  a  dictator.  Of 
course  it  was  not  for  this,  but  in  spite  of 
it,  that  I  have  given  you  the  command. 
Only  those  generals  who  gain  successes 
can  set  up  dictators.  What  I  now  ask 
of  you  is  military  success,  and  I  will  risk 
the  dictatorship.  The  government  will 
support  you  to  the  utmost  of  its  ability, 
which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  it  has 
done  and  will  do  for  all  commanders.  I 
much  fear  that  the  spirit  which  you  have 
aided  to  infuse  into  the  army,  of  criticizing 
their  commander  and  withholding  confi- 
dence from  him,  will  now  turn  upon  you. 
I  shall  assist  you  as  far  as  I  can  to  put  it 
down.  Neither  you  nor  Napoleon,  if  he 
were  alive  again,  could  get  any  good  out 
of  an  army  while  such  a  spirit  prevails  in  it; 
and  now  beware  of  rashness.  Beware  of 
rashness,  but  with  energy  and  sleepless 
vigilance  go  forward  and  give  us  victories. 
Yours  very  truly 
A.  LINCOLN. 


LETTER  TO  MRS.    BIXBY 

November  21,  1864. 
DEAR  MADAM: 

I  have  been  shown  in  the  files  of  the 
War  Department  a  statement  of  the 
Adjutant  General  of  Massachusetts  that 
you  are  the  mother  of  five  sons  who  have 
died  gloriously  on  the  field  of  battle.  I 
feel  how  weak  and  fruitless  must  be  any 
words  of  mine  which  should  attempt  to 
beguile  you  from  the  grief  of  a  loss  so  over- 
whelming. But  I  cannot  refrain  from 
tendering  to  you  the  consolation  that  may 
be  found  in  the  thanks  of  the  republic 
they  died  to  save.  I  pray  that  our  Heav- 
enly Father  may  assuage  the  anguish  01 
your  bereavement,  and  leave  you  only 
the  cherished  memory  of  the  loved  and 
lost,  and  the  solemn  pride  that  must  be 
yours  to  have  laid  so  costly  a  sacrifice 
upon  the  altar  of  freedom. 

Yours  very  sincerely  and  respectfully 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 

REFUSING  A  BARONETCY  AND  THE  GRAND 
CROSS   OF  THE   BATH 

TO   THE   RIGHT  HON.   B.   DISRAELI 

5,  CHEYNE  Row,  CHELSEA: 
December  29,  1874. 

SIR, — Yesterday,  to  my  great  surprise,  I 
had  the  honor  to  receive  your  letter  con- 
taining a  magnificent  proposal  for  my 
benefit,  which  will  be  memorable  to  me 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Allow  me  to  say 
that  the  letter,  both  in  purport  and  ex- 
pression, is  worthy  to  be  called  magnani- 
mous and  noble,  that  it  is  without  example 
in  my  own  poor  history;  and  I  think  it  is 
unexampled,  too,  in  the  history  of  govern- 
ing persons  towards  men  of  letters  at  the 
present,  as  at  any  tune;  and  that  I  will 
carefully  preserve  it  as  one  of  the  things 
precious  to  memory  and  heart.  A  real 
treasure  or  benefit  it,  independent  of  all 
results  from  it. 

This  said  to  yourself  and  reposited  with 
many  feelings  in  my  own  grateful  mind, 


LETTERS 


369 


I  have  only  to  add  that  your  splendid  and 
generous  proposals  for  my  practical  be- 
hoof, must  not  any  of  them  take  effect; 
that  titles  of  honor  are,  in  all  degrees  of 
them,  out  of  keeping  with  the  tenor  of 
my  own  poor  existence  hitherto  in  this 
epoch  of  the  world,  and  would  be  an  en- 
cumbrance, not  a  furtherance  to  me;  that 
as  to  money,  it  has,  after  long  years  of 
rigorous  and  frugal,  but  also  (thank  God, 
and  those  that  are  gone  before  me)  not 
degrading  poverty,  become  in  this  latter 
time  amply  abundant,  even  superabun- 
dant; more  of  it,  too,  now  a  hindrance, 
not  a  help  to  me;  so  that  royal  or  other 
bounty  would  be  more  than  thrown  away 
hi  my  case;  and  in  brief,  that  except  the 
feeling  of  your  fine  and  noble  conduct  on 
this  occasion,  which  is  a  real  and  perma- 
nent possession,  there  cannot  anything 
be  done  that  would  not  now  be  a  sorrow 
rather  than  a  pleasure. 
With  thanks  more  than  usually  sincere, 
I  have  the  honor  to  be,  Sir, 
Your  obliged  and  obedient  servant, 
T.  CARLYLE. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

TO  MRS.   R.   L.   STEVENSON* 

KALAWAO,  MOLOKAI  [May,  1889]. 

DEAR  FANNY, — I  had  a  lovely  sail  up. 
Captain  Cameron  and  Mr.  Gilfillan,  both 
born  in  the  States,  yet  the  first  still  with  a 
strong  Highland,  and  the  second  still 
with  a  strong  Lowland  accent,  were  good 
company;  the  night  was  warm,  the  victuals 
plain  but  good.  Mr.  Gilfillan  gave  me  his 
berth,  and  I  slept  well,  though  I  heard 
the  sisters  sick  In  the  next  state-room, 
poor  souls.  Heavy  rolling  woke  me  hi 
the  morning;  I  turned  in  all  standing, 
so  went  right  on  the  upper  deck.  The 
day  was  on  the  peep  out  of  a  low  morning 
bank,  and  we  were  wallowing  along  under 
stupendous  cliffs.  As  the  lights  bright- 
ened, we  could  see  certain  abutments  and 
buttresses  on  their  front,  where  wood 
clustered  and  grass  grew  brightly.  But 

•Reprinted  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


the  whole  brow  seemed  quite  impassable, 
and  my  heart  sank  at  the  sight.  Two 
thousand  feet  of  rock  making  19°  (the 
Captain  guesses)  seemed  quite  beyond 
my  powers.  However,  I  had  come  so  far; 
and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  so  cowed 
with  fear  and  disgust  that  I  dared  not  go 
back  on  the  adventure  in  the  interests  of 
my  own  self-respect.  Presently  we  came 
up  with  the  leper  promontory:  lowland, 
quite  bare  and  bleak  and  harsh,  a  little 
town  of  wooden  houses,  two  churches,  a 
landing-stair,  all  unsightly,  sour,  north- 
erly, lying  athwart  the  sunrise,  with  the 
great  wall  of  the  pali  [precipice]  cutting  the 
world  out  on  the  south.  Our  lepers  were 
sent  on  the  first  boat,  about  a  dozen,  one 
poor  child  very  horrid,  one  white  man, 
leaving  a  large  grown  family  behind  him 
in  Honolulu,  and  then  into  the  second 
stepped  the  sisters  and  myself.  I  do  not 
know  how  it  would  have  been  with  me 
had  the  sisters  not  been  there.  My  horror 
of  the  horrible  is  about  my  weakest  point; 
but  the  moral  loveliness  at  my  elbow 
blotted  all  else  out;  and  when  I  found  that 
one  of  them  was  crying,  poor  soul,  quietly 
under  her  veil,  I  cried  a  little  myself;  then 
I  felt  as  right  as  a  trivet,  only  a  little 
crushed  to  be  there  so  uselessly.  I 
thought  it  was  a  sin  and  a  shame  she 
should  feel  unhappy;  I  turned  round  to 
her,  and  said  something  like  this:  "Ladies, 
God  Himself  is  here  to  give  you  welcome. 
I'm  sure  it  is  good  for  me  to  be  beside  you; 
I  hope  it  will  be  blessed  to  me;  I  thank 
you  for  myself  and  the  good  you  do  me." 
It  seemed  to  cheer  her  up;  but  indeed  I 
had  scarce  said  it  when  we  were  at  the 
landing-stairs,  and  there  was  a  great 
crowd,  hundreds  of  (God  save  us!)  pan- 
tomime masks  in  poor  human  flesh,  wait- 
ing to  receive  the  sisters  and  the  new 
patients. 

Every  hand  was  offered:  I  had  gloves, 
but  I  had  made  up  my  mind  on  the  boat's 
voyage  not  to  give  my  hand,  that  seemed 
less  offensive  than  the  gloves.  So  the 
sisters  and  I  went  up  among  that  crew, 
and  presently  I  got  aside  (for  I  felt  I  had 
no  business  there)  and  set  off  on  foot  across 
the  promontory,  carrying  my  wrap  and 


37° 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


the  camera.  All  horror  was  quite  gone 
from  me:  to  see  these  dread  creatures  smile 
and  look  happy  was  beautiful.  On  my 
way  through  Kalaupapa  I  was  exchanging 
cheerful  alohas  with  the  patients  coming 
galloping  over  on  their  horses;  I  was  stop- 
ping to  gossip  at  house-doors;  I  was  happy, 
only  ashamed  of  myself  that  I  was  here 
for  no  good.  One  woman  was  pretty,  and 
spoke  good  English,  and  was  infinitely 
engaging  and  (in  the  old  phrase)  towardly; 
she  thought  I  was  the  new  white  patient; 
and  when  she  found  I  was  only  a  visitor,  a 
curious  change  came  in  her  face  and  voice 
— the  only  sad  thing — morally  sad,  I  mean 
— that  I  met  that  morning.  But  for  all 
that,  they  tell  me  none  want  to  leave. 
Beyond  Kalaupapa  the  houses  became 
rare;  dry  stone  dykes,  grassy,  stony  land, 
one  sick  pandanus;  a  dreary  country; 
from  overhead  in  the  little  clinging  wood 
shogs  of  the  pali  chirruping  of  birds  fell; 
the  low  sun  was  right  in  my  face;  the  trade 
blew  pure  and  cool  and  delicious;  I  felt 
as  right  as  nine-pence,  and  stopped  and 
chatted  with  the  patients  whom  I  still  met 
on  their  horses,  with  not  the  least  disgust. 
About  half-way  over,  I  met  the  superin- 
tendent (a  leper)  with  a  horse  for  me,  and 
O,  was  n't  I  glad!  But  the  horse  was  one 
of  those  curious,  dogged,  cranky  brutes 
that  always  dully  want  to  go  somewhere 
else,  and  my  traffic  with  him  completed 
my  crushing  fatigue.  I  got  to  the  guest- 
house, an  empty  house  with  several  rooms, 
kitchen,bath,  etc.  There  was  no  one  there, 
and  I  let  the  horse  go  loose  in  the  garden, 
lay  down  on  the  bed,  and  fell  asleep. 

Dr.  Swift  woke  me  and  gave  me  break- 
fast, then  I  came  back  and  slept  again 
while  he  was  at  the  dispensary,  and  he 
woke  me  for  dinner;  and  I  came  back  and 
slept  again,  and  he  woke  me  about  six  for 
supper;  and  then  in  about  an  hour  I  felt 
tired  again,  and  came  up  to  my  solitary 
guest-house,  played  the  flageolet,  and  am 
now  writing  to  you.  As  yet,  you  see,  I 
have  seen  nothing  of  the  settlement,  and 
my  crushing  fatigue  (though  I  believe 
that  was  moral  and  a  measure  of  my  cow- 
ardice) and  the  doctor's  opinion  make 
me  think  the  pali  hopeless.  "You  don't 


look  a  strong  man,"  said  the  doctor;  "but 
are  you  sound?"  I  told  him  the  truth; 
then  he  said  it  was  out  of  the  question, 
and  if  I  were  to  get  up  at  all,  I  must  be 
carried  up.  But,  as  it  seems,  men  as 
well  as  horses  continually  fall  on  this 
ascent:  the  doctor  goes  up  with  a  change 
of  clothes — it  is  plain  that  to  be  carried 
would  in  itself  be  very  fatiguing  to  both 
mind  and  body;  and  I  should  then  be 
at  the  beginning  of  thirteen  miles  of  moun- 
tain road  to  be  ridden  against  time.  How 
should  I  come  through?  I  hope  you  will 
think  me  right  in  my  decision:  I  mean  to 
stay,  and  shall  not  be  back  in  Honolulu 
till  Saturday,  June  first.  You  must  all 
do  the  best  you  can  to  make  ready. 

Dr.  Swift  has  a  wife  and  an  infant  son, 
beginning  to  toddle  and  run,  and  they  live 
here  as  composed  as  brick  and  mortar — • 
at  least  the  wife  does,  a  Kentucky  Ger- 
man, a  fine  enough  creature,  I  believe,  who 
was  quite  amazed  at  the  sisters  shedding 
tears!  How  strange  is  mankind!  Gil- 
fillan  too,  a  good  fellow  I  think,  and  far 
from  a  stupid,  kept  up  his  hard  Lowland 
Scottish  talk  in  the  boat  while  the  sister 
was  covering  her  face;  but  I  believe  he 
knew,  and  did  it  (partly)  in  embarrass- 
ment, and  part  perhaps  in  mistaken  kind- 
ness. And  that  was  one  reason,  too, 
why  I  made  my  speech  to  them.  Partly, 
too,  I  did  it,  because  I  was  ashamed  to  do 
so,  and  remembered  one  of  my  golden 
rules,  "When  you  are  ashamed  to  speak, 
speak  up  at  once."  But,  mind  you,  that 
rule  is  only  golden  with  strangers;  with 
your  own  folks,  there  are  other  con- 
siderations. This  is  a  strange  place  to  be 
in.  A  bell  has  been  sounded  at  intervals 
while  I  wrote,  now  all  is  still  but  a  musical 
humming  of  the  sea,  not  unlike  the  sound 
of  telegraph  wires;  the  night  is  quite  cool 
and  pitch  dark,  with  a  small  fine  rain; 
one  light  over  in  the  leper  settlement,  one 
cricket  whistling  in  the  garden,  my  lamp 
here  by  my  bedside,  and  my  pen  cheeping 
between  my  inky  fingers. 

Next  day,  lovely  morning,  slept  all 
night,  80°  in  the  shade,  strong,  sweet 
Anaho  trade-wind. 

Louis. 


VIII 
ORATIONS 

PLATO  (427-347  B.  C.) 

Plato,  the  greatest  of  philosophers,  exerted  an  influence  upon  the  intellectual  life  of  the  world 
greater  perhaps  than  that  of  any  other  man.  The  Platonic  dialogues  are  constructed  about  the  figure 
of  Socrates,  the  devoted  seeker  after  the  truth,  who  by  his  vexatious  questions  sought  to  arouse  in  his 
pupils  a  consuming  desire  to  examine  the  foundations  of  their  beliefs.  These  questions  searched  out 
the  reasons  for  the  acceptance  of  conventional  dogmas  and  never  ceased  until  all  unthinking  faith  in 
established  opinions  had  been  destroyed.  He  was  finally  tried  and  condemned  to  death  by  the  city  of 
Athens  on  the  ground  that  he  was  undermining  the  religious  beliefs  of  the  youth  of  that  city.  The  fa- 
mous Apology,  which  is  given  below,  is  Plato's  reproduction  of  his  master's  defense  of  his  conduct.  It 
not  only  reveals  the  manner  of  court  procedure  in  Athens  when  she  was  at  the  height  of  her  power,  but 
it  remains  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  of  prose  in  any  language.  And  throughout  there  stands  forth 
the  resplendent  figure  of  the  noblest  and  the  most  human  man  of  Antiquity. 

Translation  by  Benjamin  Jowett. 


THE  APOLOGY  OF  SOCRATES 

How  you  have  felt,  O  men  of  Athens,  at 
hearing  the  speeches  of  my  accusers,  I 
cannot  tell;  but  I  know  that  their  persua- 
sive words  almost  made  me  forget  who  I 
was,  such  was  the  effect  of  them;  and  yet 
they  have  hardly  spoken  a  word  of  truth. 
But  many  as  their  falsehoods  were,  there 
was  one  of  them  which  quite  amazed  me: 
I  mean  when  they  told  you  to  be  upon 
your  guard,  and  not  to  let  yourselves 
be  deceived  by  the  force  of  my  eloquence. 
They  ought  to  have  been  ashamed  of  say- 
ing this,  because  they  were  sure  to  be 
detected  as  soon  as  I  opened  my  lips  and 
displayed  my  deficiency;  they  certainly 
did  appear  to  be  most  shameless  in  saying 
<  his,  unless  by  the  force  of  eloquence  they 
mean  the  force  of  truth;  for  then  I  do  in- 
deed admit  that  I  am  eloquent.  But  in 
'iow  different  a  way  from  theirs!  Well,  as 
I  was  saying,  they  have  hardly  uttered  a 
word,  or  not  more  than  a  word,  of  truth; 
but  you  shall  hear  from  me  the  whole 
Iruth:  not,  however,  delivered  after  their 
manner,  in  a  set  oration  duly  ornamented 
with  words  and  phrases.  No,  indeed! 
but  I  shall  use  the  words  and  arguments 
which  occur  to  me  at  the  moment;  for  I 
am  certain  that  this  is  right,  and  that  at 
my  time  of  life  I  ought  not  to  be  appearing 


before  you,  O  men  of  Athens,  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  juvenile  orator:  let  no  one  expect 
this  of  me.  And  I  must  beg  of  you  to 
grant  me  one  favor,  which  is  this, — If 
you  hear  me  using  the  same  words  in  my 
defense  which  I  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  using,  and  which  most  of  you  may  have 
heard  hi  the  agora,  and  at  the  tables  of 
the  money-changers,  or  anywhere  else, 
I  would  ask  you  not  to  be  surprised  at 
this,  and  not  to  interrupt  me.  For  I  am 
more  than  seventy  years  of  age,  and  this 
is  the  first  time  that  I  have  ever  appeared 
in  a  court  of  law,  and  I  am  quite  a  stranger 
to  the  ways  of  the  place;  and  therefore  I 
would  have  you  regard  me  as  if  I  were 
really  a  stranger,  whom  you  would  excuse 
if  he  spoke  in  his  native  tongue,  and  after 
the  fashion  of  his  country:  that  I  think 
is  not  an  unfair  request.  Never  mind  the 
manner,  which  may  or  may  not  be  good; 
but  think  only  of  the  justice  of  my  cause, 
and  give  heed  to  that:  let  the  judge  decide 
justly  and  the  speaker  speak  truly. 

And  first,  I  have  to  reply  to  the  older 
charges  and  to  my  first  accusers,  and  then 
I  will  go  on  to  the  later  ones.  For  I  have 
had  many  accusers,  who  accused  me  of  old, 
and  their  false  charges  have  continued 
during  many  years;  and  I  am  more  afraid 
of  them  than  of  Anytus  and  his  associates, 
who  are  dangerous,  too,  in  their  own  way. 


372 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


But  far  more  dangerous  are  these,  who 
began  when  you  were  children,  and  took 
possession  of  your  minds  with  their  false- 
hoods, telh'ng  of  one  Socrates,  a  wise  man, 
who  speculated  about  the  heaven  above, 
and  searched  into  the  earth  beneath,  and 
made  the  worse  appear  the  better  cause. 
These  are  the  accusers  whom  I  dread; 
for  they  are  the  circulators  of  this  rumor, 
and  their  hearers  are  too  apt  to  fancy  that 
speculators  of  this  sort  do  not  believe  in 
the  gods.  And  they  are  many,  and  their 
charges  against  me  are  of  ancient  date, 
and  they  made  them  in  days  when  you 
were  impressible, — in  childhood,  or  per- 
haps in  youth, — and  the  cause  when  heard 
went  by  default,  for  there  was  none  to 
answer.  And  hardest  of  all,  their  names 
I  do  not  know  and  cannot  tell;  unless  in 
the  chance  case  of  a  comic  poet.  But 
the  main  body  of  these  slanderers  who 
from  envy  and  malice  have  wrought  upon 
you, — and  there  are  some  of  them  who 
are  convinced  themselves,  and  impart 
their  convictions  to  others, — all  these,  I 
say,  are  most  difficult  to  deal  with;  for 
I  cannot  have  them  up  here,  and  examine 
them,  and  therefore  I  must  simply  fight 
with  shadows  in  my  own  defense,  and  ex- 
amine when  there  is  no  one  who  answers. 
I  will  ask  you  then  to  assume  with  me, 
as  I  was  saying,  that  my  opponents  are 
of  two  kinds, — one  recent,  the  other 
ancient;  and  I  hope  that  you  will  see  the 
propriety  of  my  answering  the  latter  first, 
for  these  accusations  you  heard  long  be- 
fore the  others,  and  much  oftener. 

Well,  then,  I  will  make  my  defense,  and 
I  will  endeavor  in  the  short  time  which  is 
allowed  to  do  away  with  this  evil  opinion 
of  me  which  you  have  held  for  such  a 
long  time  and  I  hope  that  I  may  succeed, 
if  this  be  well  for  you  and  me,  and  that 
my  words  may  find  favor  with  you.  But 
I  know  that  to  accomplish  this  is  not  easy 
— I  quite  see  the  nature  of  the  task.  Let 
the  event  be  as  God  wills:  in  obedience  to 
the  law  I  make  my  defense. 

I  will  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  ask 
what  the  accusation  is  which  has  given 
rise  to  this  slander  of  me,  and  which  has 
encouraged  Meletus  to  proceed  against 


me.  What  do  the  slanderers  say?  They 
shall  be  my  prosecutors,  and  I  will  sum  up 
their  words  in  an  affidavit:  "Socrates  is 
an  evil-doer,  and  a  curious  person,  who 
searches  into  things  under  the  earth  and 
in  heaven,  and  he  makes  the  worse  appear 
the  better  cause;  and  he  teaches  the  afore- 
said doctrines  to  others."  That  is  the 
nature  of  the  accusation,  and  that  is  what 
you  have  seen  yourselves  in  the  comedy 
of  Aristophanes,  who  has  introduced  a 
man  whom  he  calls  Socrates,  going  about 
and  saying  that  he  can  walk  in  the  air, 
and  talking  a  deal  of  nonsense  concerning 
matters  of  which  I  do  not  pretend  to  know 
either  much  or  little — not  that  I  mean  to 
say  anything  disparaging  of  any  one  who 
is  a  student  of  natural  philosophy.  I 
should  be  very  sorry  if  Meletus  could  lay 
that  to  my  charge.  But  the  simple  truth 
is,  O  Athenians,  that  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  these  studies.  Very  many  of  those 
here  present  are  witnesses  to  the  truth  of 
this,  and  to  them  I  appeal.  Speak  then, 
you  who  have  heard  me,  and  tell  your 
neighbors,  whether  any  of  you  have  ever 
known  me  hold  forth  in  few  words  or  in 
many  upon  matters  of  this  sort.  .  .  . 
You  hear  their  answer.  And  from  what 
they  say  of  this  you  will  be  able  to  judge 
of  the  truth  of  the  rest. 

As  little  foundation  is  there  for  the  re- 
port that  I  am  a  teacher,  and  take  money; 
that  is  no  more  true  than  the  other. 
Although,  if  a  man  is  able  to  teach,  I 
honor  him  for  being  paid.  There  is 
Gorgias  of  Leontium,  and  Prodicus  of 
Ceos,  and  Hippias  of  Elis,  who  go  the 
round  of  the  cities,  and  are  able  to  per- 
suade the  young  men  to  leave  their  own 
citizens,  by  whom  they  might  be  taught 
for  nothing,  and  come  to  them,  whom  they 
not  only  pay,  but  are  thankful  if  they 
may  be  allowed  to  pay  them.  There  is 
actually  a  Parian  philosopher  residing  in 
Athens,  of  whom  I  have  heard;  and  I  came 
to  hear  of  him  in  this  way:  I  met  a  man 
who  has  spent  a  world  of  money  on  the 
Sophists,  Callias  the  son  of  Hipponicus, 
and  knowing  that  he  had  sons,  I  asked 
him:  "Callias,"  I  said,  "if  your  two  sons 
were  foals  or  calves,  there  would  be  no 


ORATIONS 


373 


difficulty  in  finding  some  one  to  put  over 
them;  we  should  hire  a  trainer  of  horses, 
or  a  farmer  probably,  who  would  improve 
and  perfect  them  in  their  own  proper  vir- 
tue and  excellence;  but  as  they  are  human 
beings,  whom  are  you  thinking  of  placing 
over  them?  Is  there  any  one  who  under- 
stands human  and  political  virtue?  You 
must  have  thought  about  this  as  you  have 
sons;  is  there  any  one?"  "There  is," 
he  said.  "Who  is  he?"  said  I,  "and  of 
what  country?  and  what  does  he  charge?  " 
"Evenus  the  Parian,"  he  replied;  "he  is 
the  man,  and  his  charge  is  five  minae." 
Happy  is  Evenus,  I  said  to  myself,  if 
he  really  has  this  wisdom,  and  teaches 
at  such  a  modest  charge.  Had  I  the  same, 
I  should  have  been  very  proud  and  con- 
teited;  but  the  truth  is  that  I  have  no 
knowledge  of  the  kind,  O  Athenians. 

I  dare  say  that  some  one  will  ask  the 
question,  "Why  is  this,  Socrates,  and  what 
is  the  origin  of  these  accusations  of  you: 
for  there  must  have  been  some  thing  strange 
which  you  have  been  doing?  All  this 
great  fame  and  talk  about  you  would 
never  have  arisen  if  you  had  been  like 
other  men:  tell  us,  then,  why  this  is,  as 
we  should  be  sorry  to  judge  hastily  of 
you."  Now  I  regard  this  as  a  fair  chal- 
lenge, and  I  will  endeavor  to  explain  to 
you  the  origin  of  this  name  of  "wise,"  and 
of  this  evil  fame.  Please  to  attend,  then. 
And  although  some  of  you  may  think 
that  I  am  joking,  I  declare  that  I  will  tell 
you  the  entire  truth.  Men  of  Athens, 
this  reputation  of  mine  has  come  of  a 
certain  sort  of  wisdom  which  I  possess. 
If  you  ask  me  what  kind  of  wisdom,  I 
reply,  such  wisdom  as  is  attainable  by 
man,  for  to  that  extent  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  I  am  wise ;  whereas  the  persons 
of  whom  I  was  speaking  have  a  super- 
human wisdom,  which  I  may  fail  to  de- 
scribe, because  I  have  it  not  myself;  and 
he  who  says  that  I  have,  speaks  falsely, 
and  is  taking  away  my  character.  And 
here,  O  men  of  Athens,  I  must  beg  you 
not  to  interrupt  me,  even  if  I  seem  to  say 
something  extravagant.  For  the  word 
which  I  will  speak  is  not  mine.  I  will  re- 
fer you  to  a  witness  who  is  worthy  of 


credit,  and  will  tell  you  about  my  wisdom 
— whether  I  have  any  and  of  what  sort — 
and  that  witness  shall  be  the  God  of 
Delphi.  You  must  have  known  Chaere- 
phon;  he  was  early  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
also  a  friend  of  yours,  for  he  shared  in  the 
exile  of  the  people,  and  returned  with  you. 
Well,  Chaerephon,  as  you  know,  was  very 
impetuous  in  all  his  doings,  and  he  went 
to  Delphi  and  boldly  asked  the  oracle  to 
tell  him  whether — as  I  was  saying,  I  must 
beg  you  not  to  interrupt — he  asked  the 
oracle  to  tell  him  whether  there  was  any 
one  wiser  than  I  was,  and  the  Pythian 
prophetess  answered,  that  there  was  no 
man  wiser.  Chaerephon  is  dead  himself, 
but  his  brother,  who  is  hi  court,  will  con- 
firm the  truth  of  this  story. 

Why  do  I  mention  this?  Because  I  am 
going  to  explain  to  you  why  I  have  such 
an  evil  name.  When  I  heard  the  answer, 
I  said  to  myself,  What  can  the  god  mean? 
and  what  is  the  interpretation  of  this 
riddle?  for  I  know  that  I  have  no  wisdom, 
small  or  great.  What  can  he  mean  when 
he  says  that  I  am  the  wisest  of  men?  And 
yet  he  is  a  god  and  cannot  he;  that  would 
be  against  his  nature.  After  a  long  con- 
sideration, I  at  last  thought  of  a  method 
of  trying  the  question.  I  reflected  that  if 
I  could  only  find  a  man  wiser  than  myself, 
then  I  might  go  to  the  god  with  a  refuta- 
tion hi  my  hand.  I  should  say  to  him, 
"Here  is  a  man  who  is  wiser  than  I  am; 
but  you  said  that  I  was  the  wisest." 
Accordingly  I  went  to  one  who  had  the 
reputation  of  wisdom,  and  observed  to 
him — his  name  I  need  not  mention;  he 
was  a  politician  whom  I  selected  for  ex- 
amination— and  the  result  was  as  follows: 
When  I  began  to  talk  with  him,  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  he  was  not  really 
wise,  although  he  was  thought  wise  by 
many,  and  wiser  still  by  himself;  and  I 
went  and  tried  to  explain  to  him  that  he 
thought  himself  wise,  but  was  not  really 
wise;  and  the  consequence  was  that  he 
hated  me,  and  his  enmity  was  shared  by 
several  who  were  present  and  heard  me. 
So  I  left  him,  saying  to  myself,  as  I  went 
away:  Well,  although  I  do  not  suppose 
that  either  of  us  knows  anything  really 


374 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


beautiful  and  good,  I  am  better  off 
than  he  is, — for  he  knows  nothing,  and 
thinks  that  he  knows.  I  neither  know 
nor  think  that  I  know.  In  this  latter 
particular,  then,  I  seem  to  have  slightly 
the  advantage  of  him.  Then  I  went  to 
another  who  had  still  higher  philosophical 
pretensions,  and  my  conclusion  was  ex- 
actly the  same.  I  made  another  enemy  of 
him,  and  of  many  others  beside  him. 

After  this  I  went  to  one  man  after  an- 
other, being  not  unconscious  of  the  enmity 
which  I  provoked,  and  I  lamented  and 
feared  this:  but  necessity  was  laid  upon 
me, — the  word  of  God,  I  thought,  ought 
to  be  considered  first.  And  I  said  to 
myself,  Go  I  must  to  all  who  appear  to 
know,  and  find  out  the  meaning  of  the 
oracle.  And  I  swear  to  you,  Athenians, 
by  the  dog  I  swear! — for  I  must  tell  you 
the  truth — the  result  of  my  mission  was 
just  this:  I  found  that  the  men  most  in 
repute  were  all  but  the  most  foolish;  and 
that  some  inferior  men  were  really  wiser 
and  better.  I  will  tell  you  the  tale  of  my 
wanderings  and  of  the  "Herculean"  la- 
bors, as  I  may  call  them,  which  I  endured 
only  to  find  at  last  the  oracle  irrefutable. 
When  I  left  the  politicians,  I  went  to  the 
poets;  tragic,  dithyrambic,  and  all  sorts. 
And  there,  I  said  to  myself,  you  will  be 
detected;  now  you  will  find  out  that  you 
are  more  ignorant  than  they  are.  Ac- 
cordingly, I  took  them  some  of  the  most 
elaborate  passages  in  their  own  writings, 
and  asked  what  was  the  meaning  of  them 
— thinking  that  they  would  teach  me 
something.  Will  you  believe  me?  I  am 
almost  ashamed  to  speak  of  this,  but  still 
I  must  say  that  there  is  hardly  a  person 
present  who  would  not  have  talked  better 
about  their  poetry  than  they  did  them- 
selves. That  showed  me  in  an  instant 
that  not  by  wisdom  do  poets  write  poetry, 
but  by  a  sort  of  genius  and  inspiration; 
they  are  like  diviners  or  soothsayers  who 
also  say  many  fine  things,  but  do  not  un- 
derstand the  meaning  of  them.  And  the 
poets  appeared  to  me  to  be  much  in  the 
same  case;  and  I  further  observed  that 
upon  the  strength  of  their  poetry  they 
believed  themselves  to  be  the  wisest  of 


men  in  other  things  in  which  they  were  not 
wise.  So  I  departed,  conceiving  myself 
to  be  superior  to  them  for  the  same  reason 
that  I  was  superior  to  the  politicians. 

At  last  I  went  to  the  artisans,  for  I  was 
conscious  that  I  knew  nothing  at  all,  as 
I  may  say,  and  I  was  sure  that  they  knew 
many  fine  things;  and  in  this  I  was  not 
mistaken,  for  they  did  know  many  things 
of  which  I  was  ignorant,  and  in  this  they 
certainly  were  wiser  than  I  was.  But  I 
observed  that  even  the  good  artisans  fell 
into  the  same  error  as  the  poets;  because 
they  were  good  workmen  they  thought 
that  they  also  knew  all  sorts  of  high 
matters,  and  this  defect  in  them  over- 
shadowed their  wisdom — therefore  I  asked 
myself  on  behalf  of  the  oracle,  whether  I 
would  like  to  be  as  I  was,  neither  having 
their  knowledge  nor  their  ignorance,  or 
like  them  in  both;  and  I  made  answer  to 
myself  and  the  oracle  that  I  was  better  off 
as  I  was. 

This  investigation  has  led  to  my  having 
many  enemies  of  the  worst  and  most  dan- 
gerous kind,  and  has  given  occasion  also 
to  many  calumnies.  And  I  am  called  wise, 
for  my  hearers  always  imagine  that  I 
myself  possess  the  wisdom  which  I  find 
wanting  in  others:  but  the  truth  is,  O  men 
of  Athens,  that  God  only  is  wise;  and  in 
this  oracle  he  means  to  say  that  the  wis- 
dom of  men  is  little  or  nothing;  he  is  not 
speaking  of  Socrates,  he  is  only  using  my 
name  as  an  illustration,  as  if  he  said, 
He,O  men,  is  the  wisest,  who,  like  Socrates, 
knows  that  his  wisdom  is  in  truth  worth 
nothing.  And  so  I  go  my  way,  obedient 
to  the  god,  and  make  inquisition  into  the 
wisdom  of  any  one,  whether  citizen  or 
stranger,  who  appears  to  be  wise;  and  if  he 
is  not  wise,  then  in  vindication  of  the  orac- 
cle  I  show  him  that  he  is  not  wise;  and  this 
occupation  quite  absorbs  me,  and  I  have 
no  time  to  give  either  to  any  public  matter 
of  interest  or  to  any  concern  of  my  own, 
but  I  am  in  utter  poverty  by  reason  of  my 
devotion  to  the  god. 

There  is  another  thing: — young  men  of 
the  richer  classes,  who  have  not  much  to 
do,  come  about  me  of  their  own  accord; 
they  like  to  hear  the  pretenders  examined, 


ORATIONS 


375 


and  they  often  imitate  me,  and  examine 
other*  themselves;  there  are  plenty  of 
persons,  as  they  soon  enougk  discover, 
who  think  that  they  know  something,  but 
really  know  littb  or  nothing:  and  then 
those  who  are  examined  by  them  instead 
of  being  angry  with  themselves  are  angry 
with  me :  This  confounded  Socrates,  they 
say;  this  villainous  misleader  of  youth! — 
and  then  if  somebody  asks  them,  Why, 
what  evil  does  he  practice  or  teach?  they 
do  not  know,  and  cannot  tell;  but  in  order 
that  they  may  not  appear  to  be  at  a  loss, 
they  repeat  the  ready-made  charges  which 
are  used  against  all  philosophers  about 
teaching  things  up  in  the  clouds  and  under 
the  earth,  and  having  no  gods,  and  making 
the  worse  appear  the  better  cause;  for 
they  do  not  like  to  confess  that  their  pre- 
tense of  knowledge  has  been  detected — 
which  is  the  truth:  and  as  they  are  nu- 
merous and  ambitious  and  energetic,  and 
are  all  in  battle  array  and  have  persuasive 
tongues,  they  have  filled  your  ears  with 
their  loud  and  inveterate  calumnies. 
And  this  is  the  reason  why  my  three  ac- 
cusers, Meletus  and  Anytus  and  Lycon, 
have  set  upon  me:  Meletus,  who  has  a 
quarrel  with  me  on  behalf  of  the  poets; 
Anytus,  on  behalf  of  the  craftsmen;  Lycon, 
on  behalf  of  the  rhetoricians:  and  as  I 
said  at  the  beginning,  I  cannot  expect  to 
get  rid  of  this  mass  of  calumny  all  in  a 
moment.  And  this,  O  men  of  Athens, 
is  the  truth  and  the  whole  truth;  I  have 
concealed  nothing,  I  have  dissembled 
nothing.  And  yet,  I  know  that  this  plain- 
ness of  speech  makes  them  hate  me,  and 
what  is  their  hatred  but  a  proof  that  I 
am  speaking  the  truth? — this  is  the  occa- 
sion and  reason  of  their  slander  of  me,  as 
you  will  find  out  either  in  this  or  in  an> 
future  inquiry. 

I  have  said  enough  in  my  defense  against 
the  first  class  of  my  accusers;  I  turn  to 
the  second  class  who  are  headed  by  Mele- 
tus, that  good  and  patriotic  man,  as  he 
calls  himself.  And  now  I  will  try  to  de- 
fend myself  against  them:  these  new 
accusers  must  also  have  their  affidavit 
read.  What  do  they  say?  Something  of 
this  sort:  That  Socrates  is  a  doer  of  evil, 


and  corrupter  of  the  youth,  and  he  doe* 
not  believe  in  the  gods  of  the  state,  and  has 
other  new  divinities  of  his  own.  That  is 
the  sort  of  charge;  and  now  let  us  examine 
the  particular  counts.  He  says  that  I 
am  a  doer  of  evil,  who  corrupt  the  youth ; 
but  I  say,  0  men  of  Athens,  that  Meletus 
is  a  doer  of  evil,  and  the  evil  is  that  he 
makes  a  joke  of  a  serious  matter,  and  is 
too  ready  at  bringing  other  men  to  trial 
from  a  pretended  zeal  and  interest  about 
matters  in  which  he  really  never  had  the 
smallest  interest.  And  the  truth  of  this 
I  will  endeavor  to  prove. 

Come  hither,  Meletus,  and  let  me  ask 
a  question  of  you.  You  think  a  great  deal 
about  the  improvement  of  youth? 

Yes  I  do. 

Tell  the  judges,  then,  who  is  their  im- 
prover; for  you  must  know,  as  you  have 
taken  the  pains  to  discover  their  corrupter, 
and  are  citing  and  accusing  me  before 
them.  Speak,  then,  and  tell  the  judges 
who  their  improver  is.  Observe,  Meletus, 
that  you  are  silent,  and  have  nothing  to 
say.  But  is  not  this  rather  disgraceful, 
and  a  very  considerable  proof  of  what  I 
was  saying,  that  you  have  no  interest  in 
the  matter?  Speak  up,  friend,  and  tell  us 
who  their  improver  is. 

The  laws. 

But  that,  my  good  sir,  is  not  my  mean- 
ing. I  want  to  know  who  the  person  is, 
who,  in  the  first  place,  knows  the  laws. 

The  judges,  Socrates,  who  are  present  in 
court. 

What,  do  you  mean  to  say,  Meletus, 
that  they  are  able  to  instruct  and  improve 
youth? 

Certainly  they  are. 

What,  all  of  them,  or  some  only  and  not 
others? 

All  of  them. 

By  the  goddess  Here,  that  is  good  news! 
There  are  plenty  of  improvers,  then.  And 
what  do  you  say  of  the  audience, — do  they 
improve  them? 

Yes,  they  do. 

And  the  senators? 

Yes,  the  senators  improve  them. 

But  perhaps  the  ecclesiasts  corrupt 
them? — or  do  they  too  improve  them? 


376 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


They  improve  them. 

Then  every  Athenian  improves  and 
elevates  them;  all  with  the  exception  of 
myself;  and  I  alone  am  their  corrupter? 
Is  that  what  you  affirm? 

That  is  what  I  stoutly  affirm. 

I  am  very  unfortunate  if  that  is  true. 
But  suppose  I  ask  you  a  question:  Would 
you  say  that  this  also  holds  true  in  the 
case  of  horses?  Does  one  man  do  them 
harm  and  all  the  world  good?  Is  not  the 
exact  opposite  of  this  true?  One  man  is 
able  to  do  them  good,  or  at  least  not  many; 
the  trainer  of  horses,  that  is  to  say,  does 
them  good,  and  others  who  have  to  do 
with  them  rather  injure  them?  Is  not 
that  true,  Meletus,  of  horses,  or  any  other 
animals?  Yes,  certainly.  Whether  you 
and  Anytus  say  yes  or  no,  that  is  no  mat- 
ter. Happy  indeed  would  be  the  condi- 
tion of  youth  if  they  had  one  corrupter 
only,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world  were 
their  improvers.  And  you,  Meletus,  have 
sufficiently  shown  that  you  never  had  a 
thought  about  the  young :  your  carelessness 
is  seen  in  your  not  caring  about  the  matters 
spoken  of  in  this  very  indictment. 

And  now,  Meletus,  I  must  ask  you  an- 
other question:  Which  is  better,  to  live 
among  bad  citizens,  or  among  good  ones? 
Answer,  friend,  I  say;  for  that  is  a  ques- 
tion which  may  be  easily  answered.  Do 
not  the  good  do  their  neighbors  good,  and 
the  bad  do  them  evil? 

Certainly. 

And  is  there  any  one  who  would  rather 
be  injured  than  benefited  by  those  who 
live  with  him?  Answer,  my  good  friend; 
the  law  requires  you  to  answer — does  any 
one  like  to  be  injured? 

Certainly  not. 

And  when  you  accuse  me  of  corrupting 
and  deteriorating  the  youth,  do  you  allege 
that  I  corrupt  them  intentionally  or  unin- 
tentionally? 

Intentionally,  I  say. 

But  you  have  just  admitted  that  the 
good  do  their  neighbors  good,  and  the 
evil  do  them  evil.  Now,  is  that  a  truth 
which  your  superior  wisdom  has  recognized 
thus  early  in  life,  and  am  I,  at  my  age,  in 
such  darkness  and  ignorance  as  not  to 


know  that  if  a  man  with  whom  1  have  to 
live  is  corrupted  by  me,  I  am  very  likely 
to  be  harmed  by  him,  and  yet  I  corrupt 
him,  and  intentionally,  too;  that  is  what 
you  are  saying,  and  of  that  you  will  never 
persuade  me  or  any  other  human  being. 
But  either  I  do  not  corrupt  them,  or  I 
corrupt  them  unintentionally,  so  that  on 
either  view  of  the  case  you  lie.  If  my 
offense  is  unintentional,  the  law  has  no 
cognizance  of  unintentional  offenses:  you 
ought  to  have  taken  me  privately,  and 
warned  and  admonished  me;  for  if  I  had 
been  hotter  advised,  I  should  have  left 
off  doing  what  I  only  did  unintentionally, 
— no  doubt  I  should;  whereas  you  hated 
to  converse  with  me  or  teach  me,  but  you 
indicted  me  in  this  court,  which  is  a  place, 
not  of  instruction,  but  of  punishment. 

I  have  shown,  Athenians,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, that  Meletus  has  no  care  at  all,  great 
or  small,  about  the  matter.  But  still  I 
should  like  to  know,  Meletus,  in  what  I 
am  affirmed  to  corrupt  the  young.  I  sup- 
pose you  mean,  as  I  infer  from  your  indict- 
ment, that  I  teach  them  not  to  acknowl- 
edge the  gods  which  the  state  acknowl- 
edges, but  some  other  new  divinities  01 
spiritual  agencies  in  their  stead.  These 
are  the  lessons  which  corrupt  the  youth,  as 
you  say. 

Yes,  that  I  say  emphatically. 

Then,  by  the  gods,  Meletus,  of  whom  we 
are  speaking,  tell  me  «,nd  the  court,  in 
somewhat  plainer  terms,  what  you  mean! 
for  I  do  not  as  yet  understand  whether 
you  affirm  that  I  teach  others  to  acknowl- 
edge some  gods,  and  therefore  do  believe 
in  gods  and  am  not  an  entire  atheist — 
this  you  do  not  lay  to  my  charge ;  but  only 
that  they  are  not  the  same  gods  which 
the  city  recognizes — the  charge  is  that 
they  are  different  gods.  Or,  do  you  mean 
to  say  that  I  am  an  atheist  simply,  and  a 
teacher  of  atheism? 

I  mean  the  latter — that  you  are  a  com- 
plete atheist. 

That  is  an  extraordinary  statement, 
Meletus.  Why  do  you  say  that?  Do  you 
mean  that  I  do  not  believe  in  the  godhead 
of  the  sun  or  moon,  which  is  the  common 
creed  of  all  men? 


ORATIONS 


377 


I  assure  you,  judges,  that  he  does  not 
believe  in  them;  for  he  says  that  the  sun  is 
stone,  and  the  moon  earth. 

Friend  Meletus,  you  think  that  you  are 
accusing  Anaxagoras:  and  you  have  but  a 
bad  opinion  of  the  judges,  if  you  fancy 
them  ignorant  to  such  a  degree  as  not  to 
know  that  these  doctrines  are  found  in  the 
books  of  Anaxagoras  the  Clazomenian, 
who  is  full  of  tnem.  And  these  are  the 
doctrines  which  the  youth  are  said  to 
learn  of  Socrates,  when  there  are  not  un- 
frequently  exhibitions  of  them  at  the 
theater  (price  of  admission  one  drachma 
at  the  most) ;  and  they  might  cheaply  pur- 
chase them,  and  laugh  at  Socrates  if  he 
pretends  to  father  such  eccentricities. 
And  so,  Meletus,  you  really  think  that 
I  do  not  believe  in  any  god? 

I  swear  by  Zeus  that  you  believe  abso- 
lutely in  none  at  all. 

You  are  a  liar,  Meletus,  not  believed 
even  by  yourself.  For  I  cannot  help 
thinking,  O  men  of  Athens,  that  Meletus 
is  reckless  and  impudent,  and  that  he  has 
written  this  indictment  in  a  spirit  of  mere 
wantonness  and  youthful  bravado.  Has 
he  not  compounded  a  riddle,  thinking  to 
try  me?  He  said  to  himself:  I  shall  see 
whether  this  wise  Socrates  will  discover 
my  ingenious  contradiction,  or  whether 
I  shall  be  able  to  deceive  him  and  the 
rest  of  them.  For  he  certainly  does  ap- 
pear to  me  to  contradict  himself  in  the 
indictment  as  much  as  if  he  said  that  Soc- 
rates is  guilty  of  not  believing  in  the  gods, 
and  yet  of  believing  in  them — but  this 
surely  is  a  piece  of  fun. 

I  should  like  you,  O  men  of  Athens,  to 
join  me  in  examining  what  I  conceive  to 
be  his  inconsistency;  and  do  you,  Meletus, 
answer.  And  I  must  remind  you  that 
you  are  not  to  interrupt  me  if  I  speak  in 
my  accustomed  manner. 

Did  ever  man,  Meletus,  believe  in  the 
existence  of  human  things,  and  not  of 
human  beings?  ...  I  wish,  men  of 
Athens,  that  he  would  answer,  and  not  be 
always  trying  to  get  up  an  interruption. 
Did  ever  any  man  believe  in  horseman- 
ship, and  not  in  horses?  or  in  flute-playing, 
and  not  in  flute-players?  No,  my  friend; 


I  will  answer  to  you  and  to  the  court,  as 
you  refuse  to  answer  for  yourself.  There 
is  no  man  who  ever  did.  But  now  please 
to  answer  the  next  question:  Can  a  man 
believe  in  spiritual  and  divine  agencies, 
and  not  in  spirits  or  demigods? 

He  cannot. 

I  am  glad  that  I  have  extracted  that 
answer,  by  the  assistance  of  the  court; 
nevertheless  you  swear  in  the  indictment 
that  I  teach  and  believe  in  divine  or  spirit- 
ual agencies  (new  or  old,  no  matter  for 
that);  at  any  rate,  I  believe  in  spiritual 
agencies,  as  you  say  and  swear  in  die  affi- 
davit; but  if  I  believe  in  divine  beings,  I 
must  believe  in  spirits  or  demigods;  is  not 
that  true?  Yes,  that  is  true,  for  I  may 
assume  that  your  silence  gives  assent  to 
that.  Now  what  are  spirits  or  demigods? 
are  they  not  either  gods  or  the  sons  of 
gods?  Is  that  true? 

Yes,  that  is  true. 

But  this  is  just  the  ingenious  riddle  of 
which  I  was  speaking:  the  demigods  or 
spirits  are  gods,  and  you  say  first  that  I 
don't  believe  in  gods,  and  then  again  that 
I  do  believe  in  gods,  that  is,  if  I  believe  in 
demigods.  For  if  the  demigods  are  the 
illegitimate  sons  of  gods,  whether  by  the 
nymphs  or  by  any  other  mothers,  as  is 
thought,  that,  as  all  men  will  allow, 
necessarily  implies  the  existence  of  their 
parents.  You  might  as  well  affirm  the 
existence  of  mules,  and  deny  that  of  horses 
and  asses.  Such  nonsense,  Meletus,  could 
only  have  been  intended  by  you  as  a  trial 
of  me.  You  have  put  this  into  the  indict- 
ment because  you  had  nothing  real  of 
which  to  accuse  me.  But  no  one  who  has 
a  particle  of  understanding  will  ever  be 
convinced  by  you  that  the  same  men  can 
believe  in  divine  and  superhuman  things, 
and  yet  not  believe  that  there  are  gods 
and  demigods  and  heroes. 

I  have  said  enough  in  answer  to  the 
charge  of  Meletus:  any  elaborate  defense 
is  unnecessary;  but  as  I  was  saying  before, 
I  certainly  have  many  enemies,  and  this 
is  what  will  be  my  destruction  if  I  am  de- 
stroyed; of  that  I  am  certain;  not  Meletus, 
nor  yet  Anytus,  but  the  envy  and  detrac- 
tion of  the  world,  which  has  been  the  death 


378 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


of  many  good  men,  and  will  probably 
be  the  death  of  many  more;  there  is  no 
danger  of  my  being  the  last  of  them. 

Some  one  will  say:  \And  are  you  not 
ashamed,  Socrates,  of  a  course  of  life 
which  is  likely  to  bring  you  to  an  untimely 
end?  To  him  I  may  fairly  answer:  There 
you  are  mistaken:  a  man  who  is  good  for 
anything  ought  not  to  calculate  the  chance 
of  living  or  dying;  he  ought  only  to  con- 
sider whether  in  doing  anything  he  is 
doing  right  or  wrong — acting  the  part  of  a 
good  man  or  of  a  bad.  Whereas,  accord- 
ing to  your  view,  the  heroes  who  fell  at 
Troy  were  not  good  for  much,  and  the  son 
of  Thetis  above  all,  who  altogether  de- 
spised danger  in  comparison  with  dis- 
grace; and  when  his  goddess  mother  said 
to  him,  in  his  eagerness  to  slay  Hector, 
that  if  he  avenged  his  companion  Patro- 
clus,  and  slew  Hector,  he  would  die  him- 
self,— "Fate,"  as  she  said,  "waits  upon 
you  next  after  Hector;"  he,  hearing  this, 
utterly  despised  danger  and  death,  and 
instead  of  fearing  them,  feared  rather  to 
live  in  dishonor,  and  not  to  avenge  his 
friend.  "Let  me  die  next,"  he  replies, 
"and  be  avenged  of  my  enemy,  rather 
than  abide  here  by  the  beaked  ships,  a 
scorn  and  a  burden  of  the  earth."  Had 
Achilles  any  thought  of  death  and  danger? 
For  wherever  a  man's  place  is,  whether 
the  place  which  he  has  chosen  or  that 
in  which  he  has  been  placed  by  a  com- 
mander, there  he  ought  to  remain  in  the 
hour  of  danger;  he  should  not  think  of 
death  or  of  anything,  but  of  disgrace. 
And  this,  O  men  of  Athens,  is  a  true  say- 
ing. 

Strange,  indeed,  would  be  my  conduct, 
O  men  of  Athens,  if  I  who,  when  I  was 
ordered  by  the  generals  whom  you  chose 
to  command  me  at  Potidaea  and  Amphi- 
polis  and  Delium,  remained  where  they 
placed  me,  like  any  other  man,  facing 
death, — if,  I  say,  now,  when,  as  I  conceive 
and  imagine,  God  orders  me  to  fulfil  the 
philosopher's  mission  of  searching  into 
myself  and  other  men,  I  were  to  desert 
my  post  through  fear  of  death,  or  any 
other  fear;  that  would  indeed  be  strange, 
and  I  might  justly  be  arraigned  in  court 


for  denying  the  existence  of  the  gods,  if 
I  disobeyed  the  oracle  because  I  fcras 
afraid  of  death:  then  I  should  be  fancying 
that  I  was  wise  when  I  was  not  wise. 
For  this  fear  of  death  is  indeed  the  pre- 
tense of  wisdom,  and  not  real  wisdom, 
being  the  appearance  of  knowing  the  un- 
known; since  no  one  knows  whether  death, 
which  they  in  their  fear  apprehend  to  be 
the  greatest  evil,  may  not  be  the  greatest 
good.  Is  there  not  here  conceit  of  knowl- 
edge, which  is  a  disgraceful  sort  of  ignor- 
ance? And  this  is  the  point  in  which,  as 
I  think,  I  am  superior  to  men  in  general, 
and  in  which  I  might  perhaps  fancy  my- 
self wiser  than  other  men, — that  whereas 
I  know  but  little  of  the  world  below,  I  do 
not  suppose  that  I  know:  but  I  do  know 
that  injustice  and  disobedience  to  a  better, 
whether  God  or  man,  is  evil  and  dishonor- 
able, and  I  will  never  fear  or  avoid  a  possi- 
ble good  rather  than  a  certain  evil.  And 
therefore  if  you  let  me  go  now,  and  reject 
the  counsels  of  Anytus,  who  said  that  if 
I  were  not  put  to  death  I  ought  not  to  have 
been  prosecuted,  and  that  if  I  escape  now, 
your  sons  will  all  be  utterly  ruined  by  lis- 
tening to  my  words, — if  you  say  to  me} 
Socrates,  this  time  we  will  not  mind  Any- 
tus, and  will  let  you  off,  but  upon  one 
condition,  that  you  are  not  to  inquire  and 
speculate  in  this  way  any  more,  and  that 
if  you  are  caught  doing  this  again  you  shall 
die, — if  this  was  the  condition  on  which 
you  let  me  go,  I  should  reply:  Men  of 
Athens,  I  honor  and  love  you;  but  I  shall 
obey  God  rather  than  you,  and  while 
I  have  life  and  strength  I  shall  never  cease 
from  the  practice  and  teaching  of  philoso- 
phy, exhorting  any  one  whom  I  meet 
after  my  manner,  and  convincing  him, 
saying:  O  my  friend,  why  do  you,  who  are 
a  citizen  of  the  great  and  mighty  and  wise 
city  of  Athens,  care  so  much  about  laying 
up  the  greatest  amount  of  money  and 
honor  and  reputation,  and  so  little  about 
wisdom  and  truth  and  the  greatest  im- 
provement of  the  soul,  which  you  never 
regard  or  heed  at  all?  Are  you  not 
ashamed  of  this?  And  if  the  person  with 
whom  I  am  arguing,  says:  Yes,  but  I  do 
care;  I  do  not  depart  or  let  him  go  at  once; 


ORATIONS 


379 


I  interrogate  and  examine  and  cross- 
examine  him,  and  if  I  think  that  he  has  no 
virtue,  but  only  says  that  he  has,  I  re- 
proach him  with  undervaluing  the  greater, 
and  overvaluing  the  less.  And  this  I 
should  say  to  every  one  whom  I  meet, 
young  and  old,  citizen  and  alien,  but  es- 
pecially to  the  citizens,  inasmuch  as  they 
are  my  brethren.  For  this  is  the  com- 
mand of  God,  as  I  would  have  you  know; 
and  I  believe  that  to  this  day  no  greater 
good  has  ever  happened  in  the  state  than 
my  service  to  the  God.  For  I  do  nothing 
but  go  about  persuading  you  all,  old  and 
young  alike,  not  to  take  thought  for  your 
persons  or  your  properties,  but  first  and 
chiefly  to  care  about  the  greatest  improve- 
ment of  the  soul.  I  tell  you  that  virtue  is 
not  given  by  money,  but  that  from  virtue 
come  money  and  every  other  good  of  man, 
public  as  well  as  private.  This  is  my 
teaching,  and  if  this  is  the  doctrine  which 
corrupts  the  youth  my  influence  is  ruin- 
ous indeed.  But  if  any  one  says  that  this 
is  not  my  teaching,  he  is  speaking  an  un- 
truth. Wherefore,  O  men  of  Athens,  I 
say  to  you,  do  as  Anytus  bids  or  not  as 
Anytus  bids,  and  either  acquit  me  or  not; 
but  whatever  you  do,  know  that  I  shall 
never  alter  my  ways,  not  even  if  I  have  to 
die  many  times. 

Men  of  Athens,  do  not  interrupt,  "but 
hear  me;  there  was  an  agreement  between 
us  that  you  should  hear  me  out.  And 
I  think  that  what  I  am  going  to  say  will 
do  you  good:  for  I  have  something  more 
to  say,  at  which  you  may  be  inclined  to 
cry  out;  but  I  beg  that  you  will  not  do  this. 
I  would  have  you  know,  that  if  you  kill 
such  a  one  as  I  am,  you  will  injure  your- 
selves more  than  you  will  injure  me. 
Meletus  and  Anytus  will  not  injure  me: 
they  cannot:  for  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  a  bad  man  should  injure  a 
better  than  himself.  I  do  not  deny  that 
he  may,  perhaps,  kill  him,  or  drive  him 
into  exile,  or  deprive  him  of  civil  rights; 
and  he  may  imagine,  and  others  may  im- 
agine, that  he  is  doing  him  a  great  injury: 
but  in  that  I  do  not  agree  with  him;  for 
the  evil  of  doing  as  Anytus  is  doing — of 
unjustly  taking  away  another  man's  life — 


is  greater  far.  And  now,  Athenians,  I  am 
not  going  to  argue  for  my  own  sake,  as 
you  may  think,  but  for  yours,  that  you 
may  not  sin  against  the  God,  or  lightly 
reject  his  boon  by  condemning  me.  For 
if  you  kill  me  you  will  not  easily  find  an- 
other like  me,  who,  if  I  may  use  such  a 
ludicrous  figure  of  speech,  am  a  sort  of 
gadfly,  given  to  the  state  by  the  God;  and 
the  state  is  like  a  great  and  noble  steed 
who  is  tardy  in  his  motions  owing  to  his 
very  size,  and  requires  to  be  stirred  into 
life.  I  am  that  gadfly  which  God  has 
given  the  state,  and  all  day  long  and  in 
all  places  am  always  fastening  upon  you, 
arousing  and  persuading  and  reproaching 
you.  And  as  you  will  not  easily  find  an- 
other like  me,  I  would  advise  you  to  spare 
me.  I  dare  say  that  you  may  feel  irritated 
at  being  suddenly  awakened  when  you  are 
caught  napping;  and  you  may  think  that  if 
you  were  to  strike  me  dead  as  Anytus 
advises,  which  you  easily  might,  then  you 
would  sleep  on  for  the  remainder  of  your 
lives,  unless  God  in  his  care  of  you  gives 
you  another  gadfly.  And  that  I  am  given 
to  you  by  God  is  proved  by  this:  that  if 
I  had  been  like  other  men,  I  should  not 
have  neglected  all  my  own  concerns,  or 
patiently  seen  the  neglect  of  them  during 
all  these  years,  and  have  been  doing  yours, 
coming  to  you  individually,  like  a  father 
or  elder  brother,  exhorting  you  to  regard 
virtue;  this,  I  say,  would  not  be  like  human 
nature.  And  had  I  gained  anything,  or  if 
my  exhortations  had  been  paid,  there 
would  have  been  some  sense  in  that:  but 
now,  as  you  will  perceive,  not  even  the 
impudence  of  my  accusers  dares  to  say 
that  I  have  ever  exacted  or  sought  pay  of 
any  one;  they  have  no  witness  of  that. 
And  I  have  a  witness  of  the  truth  of  what 
I  say ;  my  poverty  is  a  sufficient  witness. 

Some  one  may  wonder  why  I  go  about 
in  private,  giving  advice  and  busying  my- 
self with  the  concerns  of  others,  but  do 
not  venutre  to  come  forward  in  public 
and  advise  the  state.  I  will  tell  you  the 
reason  of  this.  You  have  often  heard  me 
speak  of  an  oracle  or  sign  which  comes  to 
me,  and  is  the  divinity  which  Meletus 
ridicules  in  the  indictment.  This  sign  I 


38o 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


have  had  ever  since  I  was  a  child.  The 
sign  is  a  voice  which  comes  to  me  and 
always  forbids  me  to  do  something  which 
I  am  going  to  do,  but"  never  commands 
me  to  do  anything,  and  this  is  what  stands 
in  the  way  of  my  being  a  politician.  And 
rightly,  as  I  think.  For  I  am  certain,  O 
men  of  Athens,  that  if  I  had  engaged  in 
politics,  I  should  have  perished  long  ago, 
and  done  no  good  either  to  you  or  to  my- 
self. And  don't  be  offended  at  my  telling 
you  the  truth:  for  the  truth  is,  that  no  man 
who  goes  to  war  with  you  or  any  other 
multitude,  honestly  struggling  against  the 
commission  of  unrighteousness  and  wrong 
in  the  state,  will  save  his  life;  he  who  will 
really  fight  for  the  right,  if  he  would  live 
even  for  a  little  while,  must  have  a  private 
station  and  not  a  public  one. 

I  can  give  you  as  proofs  of  this,  not 
words  only,  but  deeds,  which  you  value 
more  than  words.  Let  me  tell  you  a  pas- 
sage of  my  own  life,  which  will  prove  to 
you  that  I  should  never  have  yielded  to 
injustice  from  any  fear  of  death,  and  that 
if  I  had  not  yielded  I  should  have  died 
at  once.  I  will  tell  you  a  story — tasteless, 
perhaps,  and  commonplace,  but  neverthe- 
less true.  The  only  office  of  state  which 
I  ever  held,  O  men  of  Athens,  was  that  of 
senator;  the  tribe  Antiochis,  which  is  my 
tribe,  had  the  presidency  at  the  trial  of 
the  generals  who  had  not  taken  up  the 
bodies  of  the  slain  after  the  battle  of  Ar- 
ginusae;  and  you  proposed  to  try  them  all 
together,  which  was  illegal,  as  you  all 
thought  afterwards;  but  at  the  time  I  was 
the  only  one  of  the  prytanes  who  was 
opposed  to  the  illegality,  and  I  gave  my 
vote  against  you;  and  when  the  orators 
threatened  to  impeach  and  arrest  me,  and 
have  me  taken  away,  and  you  called  and 
shouted,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  would 
run  the  risk,  having  law  and  justice  with 
me,  rather  than  take  part  in  your  injustice 
because  I  feared  imprisonment  and  death. 
This  happened  in  the  days  of  the  democ- 
racy. But  when  the  oligarchy  of  the 
Thirty  was  in  power,  they  sent  for  me 
and  four  others  into  the  rotunda,  and  bade 
us  bring  Leon  the  Salaminian  fromSalamis, 
as  they  wanted  to  execute  him.  This 


was  a  specimen  of  the  sort  of  commands 
which  they  were  always  giving  with 
the  view  of  implicating  as  many  as  possi- 
ble in  their  crimes;  and  then  I  showed, 
not  in  word  only  but  in  deed,  that,  if  I 
may  be  allowed  to  use  such  an  expression, 
I  cared  not  a  straw  for  death,  and  that 
my  only  fear  was  the  fear  of  doing  an 
unrighteous  or  unholy  thing.  For  the 
strong  arm  of  that  oppressive  power  did 
not  frighten  me  into  doing  wrong;  and 
when  we  came  out  of  the  rotunda  the  other 
four  went  to  Salamis  and  fetched  Leon, 
but  I  went  quietly  home.  For  which  1 
might  have  lost  my  life,  had  not  the  power 
of  the  Thirty  shortly  afterwards  come  to 
an  end.  And  to  this  many  will  witness. 

Now  do  you  really  imagine  that  I  could 
have  survived  all  these  years,  if  I  had  led  a 
public  life,  supposing  that  like  a  good 
man  I  had  always  supported  the  right  and 
had  made  justice,  as  I  ought,  the  first 
thing?  No  indeed,  men  of  Athens,  neither 
I  nor  any  other.  But  I  have  been  always 
the  same  in  all  my  actions,  public  as  well 
as  private,  and  never  have  I  yielded  any 
base  compliance  to  those  who  are  slan- 
derously termed  my  disciples,  or  to  any 
other.  For  the  truth  is  that  I  have  no 
regular  disciples:  but  if  any  one  likes  to 
come  and  hear  me  while  I  am  pursuing 
my  mission,  whether  he  be  young  or  old, 
he  may  freely  come.  Nor  do  I  converse 
with  those  who  pay  only,  and  not  with 
those  who  do  not  pay;  but  any  one, 
whether  he  be  rich  or  poor,  may  ask  and 
answer  me  and  listen  to  my  words;  and 
whether  he  turns  out  to  be  a  bad  man  or  a 
good  one,  that  cannot  be  justly  laid  to 
my  charge,  as  I  never  taught  him  any- 
thing. And  if  any  one  says  that  he  has 
ever  learned  or  heard  anything  from  me 
in  private  which  all  the  world  has  not 
heard,  I  should  like  you  to  know  that  he  is 
speaking  an  untruth. 

But  I  shall  be  asked,  Why  do  people 
delight  in  continually  conversing  with 
you?  I  have  told  you  already,  Athenians, 
the  whole  truth  about  this:  they  like  to 
hear  the  cross-examination  of  the  pre- 
tenders to  wisdom;  there  is  amusement  in 
this.  And  this  is  a  duty  which  the  Goo 


has  imposed  upon  me,  as  I  am  assured  by 
oracles,  visions,  and  in  every  sort  of  way 
in  which  the  will  of  divine  power  was  ever 
signified  to  any  one.  This  is  true,  O 
Athenians;  or,  if  not  true,  would  be  soon 
refuted.  For  if  I  am  really  corrupting 
the  youth,  and  have  corrupted  some  of 
them  already,  those  of  them  who  have 
grown  up  and  have  become  sensible  that 
I  gave  them  bad  advice  in  the  days  of 
their  youth  should  come  forward  as  ac- 
cusers and  take  their  revenge;  and  if  they 
do  not  like  to  come  themselves,  some  of 
their  relatives,  fathers,  brothers,  or  other 
kinsmen,  should  say  what  evil  their  fam- 
ilies suffered  at  my  hands.  Now  is  their 
time.  Many  of  them  I  see  in  the  court. 
There  is  Crito,  who  is  of  the  same  age  and 
of  the  same  deme  with  myself;  and  there 
is  Critobulus  his  son,  whom  I  also  see. 
Then  again  there  is  Lysanias  of  Sphettus, 
who  is  the  father  of  Aeschines, — he  is 
present;  and  also  there  is  Antiphon  of 
Cephisus,  who  is  the  father  of  Epigenes; 
and  there  are  the  brothers  of  several  who 
have  associated  with  me.  There  is  Nicos- 
tratus  the  son  of  Theosdotides,  and  the 
brother  of  Theodotus  (now  Theodotus 
himself  is  dead,  and  therefore  he,  at  any 
rate,  will  not  seek  to  stop  him) ;  and  there 
is  Paralus  the  son  of  Demodocus,  who  had 
a  brother  Theages,  and  Adeimantus  the 
son  of  Ariston,  whose  brother  Plato  is 
present;  and  Aeantodorus,  who  is  the 
brother  of  Apollodorus,  whom  I  also  see. 
I  might  mention  a  great  many  others, 
any  of  whom  Meletus  should  have  pro- 
duced as  witnesses  in  the  course  of  his 
speech;  and  let  him  still  produce  them,  if 
he  has  forgotten;  I  will  make  way  for  him. 
And  let  him  say,  if  he  has  any  testimony 
of  the  oort  which  he  can  produce.  Nay, 
Athenians,  the  very  opposite  is  the  truth. 
For  all  these  are  ready  to  witness  on  behalf 
of  the  corrupter,  of  the  destroyer  of  their 
kindred,  as  Meletus  and  Anytus  call  me; 
not  the  corrupted  youth  only, — there 
might  have  been  a  motive  for  that, — but 
their  uncorrupted  elder  relatives.  Why 
should  they  too  support  me  with  their 
testimony?  Why,  indeed,  except  for  the 
sake  of  truth  and  justice,  and  because 


they  know  that  I  am  speaking  the  truth, 
and  that  Meletus  is  lying. 

Well,  Athenians,  this  and  the  like  of 
this  is  nearly  all  the  defense  which  I  have 
to  offer.  Yet  a  word  more.  Perhaps 
there  may  be  some  one  who  is  offended  at 
me,  when  he  calls  to  mind  how  he  himself 
on  a  similar,  or  even  a  less  serious  occa- 
sion, had  recourse  to  prayers  and  supplica- 
tions with  many  tears,  and  how  he  pro- 
duced his  children  in  court,  which  was  a 
moving  spectacle,  together  with  a  posse 
of  his  relations  and  friends;  whereas  I, 
who  am  probably  in  danger  of  my  life, 
will  do  none  of  these  things.  Perhaps  this 
may  come  into  his  mind,  and  he  may  be 
set  against  me,  and  vote  in  anger  because 
he  is  displeased  at  this.  Now  if  there  be 
such  a  person  among  you,  which  I  am 
far  from  affirming,  I  may  fairly  reply  to 
him:  My -friend,  I  am  a  man,  and  like 
other  men,  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood, 
and  not  of  wood  or  stone,  as  Homer  says; 
and  I  have  a  family,  yes,  and  sons,  O 
Athenians,  three  in  number,  one  of  whom 
is  growing  up,  and  the  two  others  are  still 
young;  and  yet  I  will  not  bring  any  of 
them  hither  in  order  to  petition  you  for 
an  acquittal.  And  why  not?  Not  from 
any  self-will  or  disregard  of  you.  Whether 
I  am  or  am  not  afraid  of  death  is  another 
question,  of  which  I  will  not  now  speak. 
But  my  reason  simply  is,  that  I  feel  such 
conduct  to  be  discreditable  to  myself,  and 
you,  and  the  whole  state.  One  who  has 
reached  my  years,  and  who  has  a  name 
for  wisdom,  whether  deserved  or  not, 
ought  not  to  demean  himself.  At  any 
rate,  the  world  has  decided  that  Socrates 
is  in  some  way  superior  to  other  men. 
And  if  those  among  you  who  are  said  to 
be  superior  in  wisdom  and  courage,  and 
any  other  virtue,  demean  themselves  in 
this  way,  how  shameful  is  their  conduct! 
I  have  seen  men  of  reputation,  when 
they  have  been  condemned,  behaving 
in  the  strangest  manner:  they  seemed  to 
fancy  that  they  were  going  to  suffer  some- 
thing dreadful  if  they  died,  and  that  they 
could  be  immortal  if  you  only  allowed 
them  to  live;  and  I  think  that  they  were  a 
dishonor  to  the  state,  and  that  any  strange/ 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


coming  in  would  say  of  them  that  the 
most  eminent  men  of  Athens,  to  whom  the 
Athenians  themselves  give  honor  and 
command,  are  no  better  than  women. 
And  I  say  that  these  things  ought  not  to 
be  done  by  those  of  us  who  are  of  reputa- 
tion; and  if  they  are  done,  you  ought  not 
to  permit  them;  you  ought  rather  to  show 
that  you  are  more  inclined  to  condemn, 
not  the  man  who  is  quiet,  but  the  man 
who  gets  up  a  doleful  scene,  and  makes  the 
city  ridiculous. 

But,  setting  aside  the  question  of  dis- 
honor, there  seems  to  be  something  wrong 
in  petitioning  a  judge,  and  thus  procuring 
an  acquittal  instead  of  informing  and 
convincing  him.  For  his  duty  is,  not  to 
make  a  present  of  justice,  but  to  give 
judgment;  and  he  has  sworn  that  he  will 
judge  according  to  the  laws,  and  not 
according  to  his  own  good  pleasure;  and 

.  neither  he  nor  we  should  get  into  the  habit 
of  perjuring  ourselves — there  can  be 
no  piety  in  that.  Do  not  then  require 
me  to  do  what  I  consider  dishonorable 
and  impious  and  wrong,  especially  now, 

'  when  I  am  being  tried  for  impiety  on  the 
indictment  of  Meletus.  For  if,  O  men  of 
Athens,  by  force  of  persuasion  and  en- 
treaty, I  could  overpower  your  oaths, 
then  I  should  be  teaching  you  to  believe 
that  there  are  no  gods,  and  convict  my- 
self, in  my  own  defense,  of  not  believing  in 
them.  But  that  is  not  the  case;  for  I  do 
believe  that  there  are  gods,  and  in  a  far 
higher  sense  than  that  in  which  any  of 
my  accusers  believe  in  them.  And  to  you 
and  to  God  I  commit  my  cause,  to  be  de- 
termined by  you  as  is  best  for  you  and  me. 


There  are  many  reasons  why  I  am  not 
grieved,  O  men  of  Athens,  at  the  vote  of 
condemnation.  I  expected  this,  and  am 
only  surprised  that  the  votes  are  so  nearly 
equal;  for  I  had  thought  that  the  majority 
against  me  would  have  been  far  larger; 
but  now,  had  thirty  votes  gone  over  to  the 
other  side,  I  should  have  been  acquitted. 
And  I  may  say  that  I  have  escaped 
Meletus.  And  I  may  say  more;  for  with- 
out the  assistance  of  Anytus  and  Lycon, 
he  would  not  have  had  a  fifth  part  of  the 


votes,  as  the  law  requires,  in  which  case  he 
would  have  incurred  a  fine  of  a  thousand 
drachmae,  as  is  evident. 

And  so  he  proposes  death  as  the  penalty. 
And  what  shall  I  propose  on  my  part,  O 
men  of  Athens?  Clearly  that  which 
is  my  due.  And  what  is  that  which  I 
ought  to  pay  or  to  receive?  What  shall 
be  done  to  the  man  who  has  never  had 
the  wit  to  be  idle  during  his  whole  life; 
but  has  been  careless  of  what  the  many 
care  about — wealth,  and  family  interests, 
and  military  offices,  and  speaking  in  the 
assembly,  and  magistracies,  and  plots,  and 
parties.  Reflecting  that  I  was  really 
too  honest  a  man  to  follow  in  this  way 
and  live,  I  did  not  go  where  I  could  do  no 
good  to  you  or  to  myself;  but  where  I  could 
do  the  greatest  good  privately  to  every 
one  of  you,  thither  I  went,  and  sought  to 
persuade  every  man  among  you,  that  he 
must  look  to  himself,  and  seek  virtue  and 
wisdom  before  he  looks  to  his  private  in- 
terests, and  look  to  the  state  before  he 
looks  to  the  interests  of  the  state;  and  that 
this  should  be  the  order  which  he  observes 
in  all  his  actions.  What  shall  be  done  to 
such  a  one?  Doubtless  some  good  thing, 
O  men  of  Athens,  if  he  has  his  reward; 
and  the  good  should  be  of  a  kind  suitable 
to  him.  What  would  be  a  reward  suitable 
to  a  poor  man  who  is  your  benefactor,  who 
desires  leisure  that  he  may  instruct  you? 
There  can  be  no  more  fitting  reward  than 
maintenance  in  the  prytaneum,  O  men  of 
Athens,  a  reward  which  he  deserves  far 
more  than  the  citizen  who  has  won  the 
prize  at  Olympia  in  the  horse  or  chariot 
race,  whether  the  chariots  were  drawn 
by  two  horses  or  by  many.  For  I  am  in 
want,  and  he  has  enough;  and  he  only 
gives  you  the  appearance  of  happiness, 
and  I  give  you  the  reality.  And  if  I  am  to 
estimate  the  penalty  justly,  I  say  that 
maintenance  in  the  prytaneum  is  the  just 
return. 

Perhaps  you  may  think  that  I  am  brav- 
ing you  in  saying  this,  as  in  what  I  said 
before  about  the  tears  and  prayers.  But 
that  is  not  the  case.  I  speak  rather  be- 
cause I  am  convinced  that  I  never  in- 
tentionally wronged  any  one,  although 


ORATIONS 


383 


I  cannot  convince  you  of  that — for  we 
have  had  a  short  conversation  only; 
but  if  there  were  a  law  at  Athens,  such  as 
there  is  in  other  cities,  that  a  capital 
cause  should  not  be  decided  hi  one  day, 
then  I  believe  that  I  should  have  con- 
vinced you;  but  now  the  time  is  too  short. 
I  cannot  in  a  moment  refute  great  slan- 
ders; and,  as  I  am  convinced  that  I  never 
wronged  another,  I  will  assuredly  not 
wrong  myself.  I  will  not  say  of  myself 
that  I  deserve  any  evil,  or  propose  any 
penalty.  Why  should  I  ?  Because  I 
am  afraid  of  the  penalty  of  death  which 
Meletus  proposes?  When  I  do  not  know 
whether  death  is  a  good  or  an  evil,  why 
should  I  propose  a  penalty  which  would 
certainly  be  an  evil?  Shall  I  say  im- 
prisonment? And  why  should  I  live  in 
prison,  and  be  the  slave  of  the  magistrates 
of  the  year — of  the  eleven?  Or  shall  the 
penalty  be  a  fine,  and  imprisonment  until 
the  fine  is  paid?  There  is  the  same  objec- 
tion. I  should  have  to  lie  in  prison,  for 
money  I  have  none,  and  cannot  pay. 
And  if  I  say  exile  (and  this  may  possibly 
be  the  penalty  which  you  will  affix),  I 
must  indeed  be  blinded  by  the  love  of  life, 
if  I  were  to  consider  that  when  you,  who 
are  my  own  citizens,  cannot  endure  my 
discourses  and  words,  and  have  found 
them  so  grievous  and  odious  that  you  would 
fain  have  done  with  them,  others  are 
likely  to  endure  me.  No  indeed,  men 
of  Athens,  that  is  not  very  likely.  And 
what  a  life  should  I  lead,  at  my  age, 
wandering  from  city  to  city,  living  in  ever- 
changing  exile,  and  always  being  driven 
out!  For  I  am  quite  sure  that  into  what- 
ever place  I  go,  as  here  so  also  there,  the 
young  men  will  come  to  me;  and  if  I  drive 
them  away,  their  elders  will  drive  me  out 
at  their  desire:  and  if  I  let  them  come, 
their  fathers  and  friends  will  drive  me 
out  for  their  sakes. 

Some  one  will  say:  Yes,  Socrates,  but 
cannot  you  hold  your  tongue,  and  then 
you  may  go  into  a  foreign  city,  and  no  one 
will  interfere  with  you?  Now  I  have 
great  difficulty  in  making  you  understand 
my  answer  to  this.  For  if  I  tell  you  that 
this  would  be  a  disobedience  to  a  divihe 


command,  and  therefore  that  I  cannot 
hold  my  tongue,  you  will  not  believe  that 
I  am  serious;  and  if  I  say  again  that  the 
greatest  good  of  man  is  daily  to  converse 
about  virtue,  and  all  that  concerning 
which  you  hear  me  examining  myself  and 
others,  and  that  the  life  which  is  unexam- 
ined  is  not  worth  living — that  you  are  still 
less  likely  to  believe.  And  yet  what  I  say 
is  true,  although  a  thing  of  which  it  is 
hard  for  me  to  persuade  you.  Moreover, 
I  am  not  accustomed  to  think  that  I  de- 
serve any  punishment.  Had  I  money  I 
might  have  proposed  to  give  you  what  I 
had,  and  have  been  none  the  worse.  But 
you  see  that  I  have  none,  and  can  only  ask 
you  to  proportion  the  fine  to  my  means. 
However,  I  think  that  I  could  afford  a 
mina,  and  therefore  I  propose  that  penalty; 
Plato,  Crito,  Critobulus,  and  Apollodorus, 
my  friends  here,  bid  me  say  thirty  minae, 
and  they  will  be  the  sureties.  Well,  then, 
say  thirty  minae,  let  that  be  the  penalty; 
for  that  they  will  be  ample  security  to  you. 
Not  much  time  will  be  gained,  O  Athen- 
ians, in  return  for  the  evil  name  which 
you  will  get  from  the  detractors  of  the 
city,  who  will  say  that  you  killed  Socrates, 
a  wise  man;  for  they  will  call  me  wise 
even  although  I  am  not  wise  when  they 
want  to  reproach  you.  If  you  had  waited 
a  little  while,  your  desire  would  have  been 
fulfilled  in  the  course  of  nature.  For  I  am 
far  advanced  in  years,  as  you  may  per- 
ceive, and  not  far  from  death.  I  am 
speaking  now  only  to  those  of  you  who 
have  condemned  me  to  death.  And  I 
have  another  thing  to  say  to  them:  You 
think  that  I  was  convicted  through  de- 
ficiency of  words — I  mean,  that  if  I  had 
thought  fit  to  leave  nothing  undone,  noth- 
ing unsaid,  I  might  have  gained  an  acquit- 
tal. Not  so;  the  deficiency  which  led  to 
my  conviction  was  not  of  words — certainly 
not.  But  I  had  not  the  boldness  or  impu- 
dence or  inclination  to  address  you  as  you 
would  have  liked  me  to  address  you,  weep- 
ing and  wailing  and  lamenting,  and  saying 
and  doing  many  things  which  you  have 
been  accustomed  to  hear  from  others,  and 
which,  as  I  say,  are  unworthy  of  me.  But 
I  thought  that  I  ought  not  to  do  anything 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


common  or  mean  in  the  hour  of  danger: 
nor  do  I  now  repent  of  the  manner  of  my 
defense,  and  I  would  rather  die  having 
spoken  after  my  manner,  than  speak  in 
your  manner  and  live.  For  neither  in 
war  nor  yet  at  law  ought  any  man  to  use 
every  way  of  escaping  death.  For  often 
in  battle  there  is  no  doubt  that  if  a  man 
will  throw  away  his  arms,  and  fall  on  his 
knees  before  his  pursuers,  he  may  escape 
death;  and  in  other  dangers  there  are  other 
ways  of  escaping  death  if  a  man  is  willing 
to  say  and  do  anything.  The  difficulty, 
my  friends,  is  not  in  avoiding  death,  but  in 
avoiding  unrighteousness;  for  that  runs 
faster  than  death.  I  am  old  and  move 
slowly,  and  the  slower  runner  has  over- 
taken me,  and  my  accusers  are  keen  and 
quick,  and  the  faster  runner,  who  is  un- 
righteousness, has  overtaken  them.  And 
now  I  depart  hence  condemned  by  you  to 
suffer  the  penalty  of  death,  and  they  too 
go  their  ways  condemned  by  the  truth  to 
suffer  the  penalty  of  villainy  and  wrong; 
and  I  must  abide  by  my  award — let  them 
abide  by  theirs.  I  suppose  that  these 
things  may  be  regarded  as  fated, — and  I 
think  that  they  are  well. 

And  now,  O  men  who  have  condemned 
me,  I  would  fain  prophesy  to  you;  for 
I  am  about  to  die,  and  that  is  the  hour  in 
which  men  are  gifted  with  prophetic 
power.  And  I  prophesy  to  you  who  are 
my  murderers,  that  immediately  after  my 
death  punishment  far  heavier  than  you 
have  inflicted  on  me  will  surely  await 
you.  Me  you  have  killed  because  you 
wanted  to  escape  the  accuser,  and  not  to 
give  an  account  of  your  lives.  But  that 
will  not  be  as  you  suppose:  far  otherwise. 
For  I  say  that  there  will  be  more  accusers 
of  you  than  there  are  now;  accusers  whom 
hitherto  I  have  restrained:  and  as  they  are 
younger  they  will  be  more  severe  with 
you,  and  you  will  be  more  offended  at 
them.  For  if  you  think  that  by  killing 
men  you  can  avoid  the  accuser  censuring 
your  lives,  you  are  mistaken;  that  is  not  a 
way  of  escape  which  is  either  possible  or 
honorable;  the  easiest  and  the  noblest  way 
is  not  to  be  crushing  others,  but  to  be  im- 
proving yourselves.  This  is  the  prophecy 


which  I  utter  before  my  departure  to  the 
judges  who  have  condemned  me. 

Friends,  who  would  have  acquitted  me, 
I  would  like  also  to  talk  with  you  about 
this  thing  which  has  happened,  while  the 
magistrates  are  busy,  and  before  I  go  to 
the  place  at  which  I  must  die.  Stay  then 
a  while,  for  we  may  as  well  talk  with  one 
another  while  there  is  time.  You  are  my 
friends,  and  I  should  like  to  show  you  the 
meaning  of  this  event  which  has  happened 
to  me.  O  my  judges — for  you  I  may  truly 
call  judges — I  should  like  to  tell  you  of  a 
wonderful  circumstance.  Hitherto  the 
familiar  oracle  within  me  has  constantly 
been  in  the  habit  of  opposing  me  even 
about  trifles,  if  I  was  going  to  make  a  slip 
or  error  about  anything;  and  now  as  you 
see  there  has  come  upon  me  that  which 
may  be  thought,  and  is  generally  believed 
to  be,  the  last  and  worst  evil.  But  the 
oracle  made  no  sign  of  opposition,  either 
as  I  was  leaving  my  house  and  going  out  in 
the  morning,  or  when  I  was  going  up  into 
this  court,  or  while  I  was  speaking,  at 
anything  which  I  was  going  to  say;  and 
yet  I  have  often  been  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  a  speech,  but  now  in  nothing  I  either 
said  or  did  touching  this  matter  has  the 
oracle  opposed  me.  What  do  I  take  to  be 
the  explanation  of  this?  I  will  tell  you.  I 
regard  this  as  a  proof  that  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me  is  a  good,  and  that  those  of 
us  who  think  that  death  is  an  evil  are  in 
error.  This  is  a  great  proof  to  me  of 
what  I  am  saying,  for  the  customary  sign 
would  surely  have  opposed  me  had  I 
been  going  to  evil  and  not  to  good. 

Let  us  reflect  in  another  way,  and  we 
shall  see  that  there  is  great  reason  to  hope 
that  death  is  a  good,  for  one  of  two  things: 
either  death  is  a  state  of  nothingness  and 
utter  unconsciousness,  or,  as  men  say, 
there  is  a  change  and  migration  of  the 
soul  from  this  world  to  another.  Now 
if  you  suppose  that  there  is  no  conscious- 
ness, but  a  sleep  like  the  sleep  of  him  who 
is  undisturbed  even  by  the  sight  of  dreams, 
death  will  be  an  unspeakable  gain.  For 
if  a  person  were  to  select  the  night  in 
which  his  sleep  was  undisturbed  even  by 
dreams,  and  were  to  compare  with  this  the 


ORATIONS 


385 


other  days  and  nights  of  his  life,  and  then 
were  to  tell  us  how  many  days  and  nights 
he  had  passed  in  the  course  of  his  life 
better  and  more  pleasantly  than  this  one, 
I  think  that  any  man,  I  will  not  say  a 
private  man,  but  even  the  great  king  will 
not  find  many  such  days  or  nights,  when 
compared  with  the  others.  Now  if  death 
is  like  this,  I  say  that  to  die  is  gain;  for 
eternity  is  then  only  a  single  night.  But 
if  death  is  the  journey  to  another  place, 
and  there,  as  men  say,  all  the  dead  are, 
what  good,  0  my  friends  and  judges,  can 
be  greater  than  this?  If  indeed  when  the 
pilgrim  arrives  in  the  world  below,  he  is 
delivered  from  the  professors  of  justice  in 
this  world,  and  finds  the  true  judges  who 
are  said  to  give  judgment  there,  Minos 
and  Rhadamanthus  and  Aeacus  and 
Triptolemus,  and  other  sons  of  God  who 
were  righteous  in  their  own  life,  that  pil- 
grimage will  be  worth  making.  What 
would  not  a  man  give  if  he  might  converse 
with  Orpheus  and  Musaeus  and  Hesiod 
and  Homer?  Nay,  if  this  be  true,  let 
me  die  again  and  again.  I,  too,  shall  have 
a  wonderful  interest  in  a  place  where  I  can 
converse  with  Palamedes,  and  Ajax  the 
son  of  Telamon,  and  other  heroes  of  old, 
who  have  suffered  death  through  an  un- 
just judgment;  and  there  will  be  no  small 
pleasure,  as  I  think,  in  comparing  my  own 
suffering  with  theirs.  Above  afl,  I  shall 
be  able  to  continue  my  search  into  true 
and  false  knowledge;  as  in  this  world,  so 
also  in  that;  I  shall  find  out  who  is  wise, 
and  who  pretends  to  be  wise,  and  is  not. 
What  would  not  a  man  give,  O  judges,  to 
be  able  to  examine  the  leader  of  the  great 
Trojan  expedition;  or  Odysseus  or  Sisy- 
phus, or  numberless  others,  men  and 
women  too!  What  infinite  delight  would 
there  be  in  conversing  with  them  and  ask- 
ing them  questions!  For  in  that  world 
they  do  not  put  a  man  to  death  for  this; 
certainly  not.  For  besides  being  happier 
in  that  world  than  in  this,  they  will  be 
immortal,  if  what  is  said  is  true. 

Wherefore,  O  judges,  be  of  good  cheer 
about  death,  and  know  this  of  a  truth — 
that  no  evil  can  happen  to  a  good  man, 
either  in  life  or  after  death.  He  and  his 


are  not  neglected  by  the  gods;  nor  has 
my  own  approaching  end  happened  by 
mere  chance.  But  I  see  clearly  that  to  die 
and  be  released  was  better  for  me;  and 
therefore  the  oracle  gave  no  sign.  For 
which  reason,  also,  I  am  not  angry  with 
my  accusers  or  my  condemners;  they  have 
done  me  no  harm,  although  neither  of  them 
meant  to  do  me  any  good;  and  for  this  I 
may  gently  blame  them. 

Still  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  them. 
When  my  sons  are  grown  up,  I  would  ask 
you,  O  my  friends,  to  punish  them;  and 
I  would  have  you  trouble  them,  as  I  have 
troubled  you,  if  they  seem  to  care  about 
riches,  or  anything,  more  than  about  vir- 
tue; or  if  they  pretend  to  be  something 
when  they  are  really  nothing, — then  re- 
prove them,  as  I  have  reproved  you,  for 
not  caring  about  that  for  which  they 
ought  to  care,  and  thinking  that  they  are 
something  when  they  are  really  nothing. 
And  if  you  do  this,  I  and  my  sons  will  have 
received  justice  at  your  hands. 

The  hour  of  departure  has  arrived,  and 
we  go  our  ways — I  to  die,  and  you  to  live. 
Which  is  better  God  only  knows. 

EDMUND  BURKE  (1729-1797) 
Ax  THE  TRIAL  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS 

MY  LORDS,  you  have  now  heard  the 
principles  on  which  Mr.  Hastings  governs 
the  part  of  Asia  subjected  to  the  British 
Empire.  Here  he  has  declared  his  opinion 
that  he  is  a  despotic  prince;  that  he  is  to 
use  arbitrary  power;  and,  of  course,  all 
his  acts  are  covered  with  that  shield.  "I 
know,"  says  he,  "the  Constitution  of  Asia 
only  from  its  practise."  Will  your  lord- 
ships submit  to  hear  the  corrupt  practises 
of  mankind  made  the  principles  of  govern- 
ment? He  have  arbitrary  power! — my 
lords,  the  East  India  Company  have  not 
arbitrary  power  to  give  him;  the  king  has 
no  arbitrary  power  to  give  him;  your  lord- 
ships have  not;  nor  the  Commons;  nor  the 
whole  Legislature. 

We  have  no  arbitrary  power  to  give, 
because  arbitrary  power  is  a  thing  which 
neither  any  man  can  hold  nor  any  man 


386 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


can  give.  No  man  can  lawfully  govern 
himself  according  to  his  own  will — much 
less  can  one  person  be  governed  by  the 
will  of  another.  We  arc  all  born  in  sub- 
jection— all  born  equally,  high  and  low, 
governors  and  governed,  in  subjection  to 
one  great,  immutable,  preexistent  law, 
prior  to  all  our  devices,  and  prior  to  all  our 
contrivances,  paramount  to  all  our  ideas 
and  to  all  our  sensations,  antecedent  to  our 
very  existence,  by  which  we  are  knit  and 
connected  in  the  eternal  frame  of  the  uni- 
verse, out  of  which  we  can  not  stir. 

This  great  law  does  not  arise  from  our 
conventions  or  compacts;  on  the  contrary, 
it  gives  to  our  conventions  and  compacts 
all  the  force  and  sanction  they  can  have: 
it  does  not  arise  from  our  vain  institutions. 
Every  good  gift  is  of  God,  all  power  is  of 
God;  and  He  who  has  given  the  power, 
and  from  whom  alone  it  originates,  will 
never  suffer  the  exercise  of  it  to  be  prac- 
tised upon  any  less  solid  foundation  than 
the  power  itself. 

If,  then,  all  dominion  of  man  over  man 
is  the  effect  of  the  divine  disposition,  it  is 
bound  by  the  eternal  laws  of  Hun  that 
gave  it,  with  which  no  human  authority 
can  dispense;  neither  he  that  exercises  it, 
nor  even  those  who  are  subject  to  it;  and, 
if  they  were  mad  enough  to  make  an  ex- 
press compact,  that  should  release  their 
magistrate  from  his  duty,  and  should 
declare  their  lives,  liberties  and  properties, 
dependent  upon,  not  rules  and  laws,  but 
his  mere  capricious  will,  that  covenant 
would  be  void. 

This  arbitrary  power  is  not  to  be  had 
by  conquest.  Nor  can  any  sovereign  have 
it  by  succession;  for  no  man  can  succeed 
to  fraud,  rapine,  and  violence.  Those 
who  give  and  those  who  receive  arbitrary 
power  are  alike  criminal;  and  there  is  no 
man  but  is  bound  to  resist  it  to  the  best 
of  his  power,  wherever  it  shall  show  its 
face  to  the  world. 

Law  and  arbitrary  power  are  in  eternal 
enmity.  Name  me  a  magistrate,  and  I 
will  name  property;  name  me  power,  and  I 
will  name  protection.  It  is  a  contradiction 
in  terms,  it  is  blasphemy  in  religion,  it  is 
wickedness  in  politics,  to  say  that  any 


man  can  have  arbitrary  power.  In  every 
patent  of  office  the  duty  is  included.  For 
what  else  does  a  magistrate  exist?  To  sup- 
pose for  power,  is  an  absurdity  in  idea. 
Judges  are  guided  and  governed  by  the 
eternal  laws  of  justice,  to  which  we  are 
all  subject.  We  may  bite  our  chains,  if 
we  will;  but  we  shall  be  made  to  know 
ourselves,  and  be  taught  that  man  is 
born  to  be  governed  by  law;  and  he  that 
will  substitute  will  in  the  place  of  it  is  an 
enemy  to  God. 

My  lords,  I  do  not  mean  now  to  go 
farther  than  just  to  remind  your  lordships 
of  this — that  Mr.  Hastings'  government 
was  one  whole  system  of  oppression,  of 
robbery  of  individuals,  of  spoliation  of  the 
public,  and  of  supersession  of  the  whole 
system  of  the  English  government,  in  order 
to  vest  in  the  worst  of  the  natives  all  the 
power  that  could  possibly  exist  in  any 
government;  in  order  to  defeat  the  ends 
which  all  governments  ought,  in  common, 
to  have  in  view.  In  the  name  of  the  Com- 
mons of  England,  I  charge  all  this  villainy 
upon  Warren  Hastings,  in  this  last  moment 
of  my  application  to  you. 

My  lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here, 
to  a  great  act  of  national  justice?  Do  we 
want  a  cause,  my  lords?  You  have  the 
cause  of  oppressed  princes,  of  undone 
women  of  the  first  rank,  of  desolated 
provinces,  and  of  wasted  kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  lords? 
When  was  there  so  much  iniquity  ever 
laid  to  the  charge  of  any  one?  No,  my 
lords,  you  must  not  look  to  punish  any 
other  such  delinquent  from  India. 
Warren  Hastings  has  not  left  substance 
enough  in  India  to  nourish  such  another 
delinquent. 

My  lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want? 
You  have  before  you  the  Commons  of 
Great  Britain  as  prosecutors;  and  I  be- 
lieve, my  lords,  that  the  sun,  in  his  benefi- 
cent progress  round  the  world,  does  not 
behold  a  more  glorious  sight  than  that  of 
men,  separated  from  a  remote  people 
by  the  material  bounds  and  barriers  of  na- 
ture, united  by  the  bond  of  a  social  and 
moral  community — all  the  Commons  of 
England  resenting,  as  their  own,  the.  in- 


ORATIONS 


387 


dignities  and  cruelties  that  are  offered 
to  all  the  people  of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal?  My  lords,  no 
example  of  antiquity,  nothing  in  the 
modern  world,  nothing  in  the  range  of 
human  imagination,  can  supply  us  with  a 
tribunal  like  this.  We  commit  safely  the 
interests  of  India  and  humanity  into  your 
hands.  Therefore,  it  is  with  confidence 
that,  ordered  by  the  Commons, 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  of 
high  crimes  and  misdemeanors. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Commons 
of  Great  Britain  in  Parliament  assembled, 
whose  parliamentary  trust  he  has  betrayed. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the 
Commons  of  Great  Britain,  whose  national 
character  he  has  dishonored. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people 
of  India,  whose  laws,  rights  and  liberties 
he  has  subverted;  whose  properties  he  has 
destroyed;  whose  country  he  has  laid 
waste  and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by  virtue 
of  those  eternal  laws  of  justice  which  he 
has  violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human 
nature  itself,  which  he  has  cruelly  out- 
raged, injured  and  oppressed,  in  both 
sexes,  in  every  age,  rank,  situation,  and 
condition  of  life. 

My  lords,  at  this  awful  close,  in  the 
name  of  the  Commons  and  surrounded  by 
them,  I  attest  the  retiring,  I  attest  the 
advancing  generations,  between  which,  as 
a  link  in  the  great  chain  of  eternal  order,  we 
stand.  We  call  this  nation,  we  call  the 
world  to  witness,  that  the  Commons  have 
shrunk  from  no  labor;  that  we  have  been 
guilty  of  no  prevarication;  that  we  have 
made  no  compromise  with  crime;  that  we 
have  not  feared  any  odium  whatsoever,  in 
the  long  warfare  which  we  have  carried  on 
with  the  crimes,  with  the  vices,  with  the  ex- 
orbitant wealth ,  with  the  enormous  and  over- 
powering influence  of  Eastern  corruption. 

My  lords,  it  has  pleased  Providence  to 
place  us  in  such  a  state  that  we  appear 
every  moment  to  be  upon  the  verge  of 
some  great  mutations.  There  is  one  thing, 
and  one  thing  only,  which  defies  all  muta- 
tion: that  which  existed  before  the  world, 


and  will  survive  the  fabric  of  the  world 
itself — I  mean  justice;  that  justice  which, 
emanating  from  the  Divinity,  has  a  place 
in  the  breast  of  every  one  of  us,  given  us 
for  our  guide  with  regard  to  ourselves  and 
with  regard  to  others,  and  which  will  stand, 
after  this  globe  is  burned  to  ashes,  our  ad- 
vocate or  our  accuser,  before  the  great 
Judge,  when  He  comes  to  call  upon  us  for 
the  tenor  of  a  well-spent  life. 

My  lords,  the  Commons  will  share  in 
every  fate  with  your  lordships;  there  is 
nothing  sinister  which  can  happen  to  you,  in 
which  we  shall  not  ah1  be  involved;  and,  if  it 
should  so  happen  that  we  shall  be  sub- 
jected to  some  of  those  frightful  changes 
which  we  have  seen — if  it  should  happen 
that  your  lordships,  stripped  of  all  the 
decorous  distinctions  of  human  society, 
should,  by  hands  at  once  base  and  cruel,  be 
led  to  those  scaffolds  and  machines  of 
murder  upon  which  great  kings  and  glorious 
queens  have  shed  their  blood,  amidst  the 
prelates,  amidst  the  nobles,  amidst  the 
magistrates,  who  supported  their  thrones — 
may  you  hi  those  moments  feel  that  con- 
solation which  I  am  persuaded  they  felt  in 
the  critical  moments  of  their  dreadful  agony ! 

My  lords,  if  you  must  fall,  may  you  so 
fall!  but,  if  you  stand — and  stand  I  trust 
you  will — together  with  the  fortune  of  this 
ancient  monarchy,  together  with  the  an- 
cient laws  and  liberties  of  this  great  and 
illustrious  kingdom,  may  you  stand  as 
unimpeached  in  honor  as  in  power;  may 
you  stand,  not  as  a  substitute  for  virtue, 
but  as  an  ornament  of  virtue,  as  a  security 
for  virtue;  may  you  stand  long,  and  long 
stand  the  terror  of  tyrants;  may  you  stand 
the  refuge  of  afflicted  nations;  may  you 
stand  a  sacred  temple,  for  the  perpetual 
residence  of  an  inviolable  justice! 

(1788) 

GEORGES  JACQUES  DANTON 

(1759-1794) 

"DARE,  DARE  AGAIN,  ALWAYS  DARE"* 

IT  is  gratifying  to  the  ministers  of  a  free 
people  to  have  to  announce  to  them  that 

Translation  by  Scott  Robinson.  Reprinted  from  the 
"World's  Famous  Orations"  by  permission  of  the  Funk  4 
Wagnalls  Company. 


388 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


their  country  will  be  saved.  All  are  stirred, 
all  are  excited,  all  burn  to  fight.  You 
know  that  Verdun  is  not  yet  in  the  power 
of  our  enemies.  You  'know  that  its 
garrison  swears  to  immolate  the  first  who 
breathes  a  proposition  of  surrender. 

One  portion  of  our  people  will  proceed 
'to  the  frontiers,  another  will  throw  up 
intrenchments,  and  the  third  with  pikes 
will  defend  the  hearts  of  our  cities.  Paris 
will  second  these  great  efforts.  The  com- 
missioners of  the  Commune  will  solemnly 
proclaim  to  the  citizens  the  invitation  to 
arm  and  march  to  the  defense  of  the  coun- 
try. At  such  a  moment  you  can  proclaim 
that  the  capital  deserves  well  of  all  France. 

At  such  a  moment  this  National  Assem- 
bly becomes  a  veritable  committee  of  war. 
We  ask  that  you  concur  with  us  hi  direct- 
ing this  sublime  movement  of  the  people, 
by  naming  commissioners  who  will  second 
us  hi  these  great  measures.  We  ask  that 
any  one  refusing  to  give  personal  service 
or  to  furnish  arms  shall  be  punished  with 
death.  We  ask  that  a  set  of  instructions 
be  drawn  up  for  the  citizens  to  direct  their 
movements.  We  ask  that  couriers  be 
sent  to  all  the  departments  to  notify  them 
of  the  decrees  that  you  proclaim  here. 
The  tocsin  we  are  about  to  ring  is  not  an 
alarm  signal;  it  sounds  the  charge  on  the 
enemies  of  our  country.  To  conquer  them 
we  must  dare,  dare  again,  always  dare  and 
France  is  saved! 

(1792) 

DANIEL  WEBSTER  (1782-1852) 
IN  REPLY  TO  HAYNE 

WHEN  the  mariner  has  been  tossed  for 
many  days  hi  thick  weather,  and  on  an 
unknown  sea,  he  naturally  avails  himself 
of  the  first  pause  in  the  storm,  the  earliest 
glance  of  the  sun,  to  take  his  latitude  and 
ascertain  how  far  the  elements  have  driven 
him  from  his  true  course.  Let  us  imitate 
this  prudence,  and,  before  we  float  farther 
on  the  waves  of  this  debate,  refer  to  the 
point  from  which  we  departed,  that  we 
may  at  least  be  able  to  conjecture  where 
we  now  are.  I  ask  for  the  reading  of  the 
resolution  before  the  Senate. 


The  gentleman,  sir,  in  declining  to  post- 
pone the  debate,  told  the  Senate,  with  the 
emphasis  of  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  that 
there  was  something  rankling  here,  which 
he  wished  to  relieve.  [Mr.  Hayne  rose 
and  disclaimed  having  used  the  word 
rankling.]  It  would  not,  Mr.  President, 
be  safe  for  the  honorable  member  to  ap- 
peal to  those  around  him,  upon  the  ques- 
tion whether  he  did  in  fact  make  use  of 
that  word.  But  he  may  have  been  un- 
conscious of  it.  At  any  rate,  it  is  enough 
that  he  disclaims  it.  But  still,  with  or 
without  the  use  of  that  particular  word, 
he  had  yet  something  here,  he  said,  of 
which  he  wished  to  rid  himself  by  an  im- 
mediate reply.  In  this  respect,  sir,  I  have 
a  great  advantage  over  the  honorable 
gentleman.  There  is  nothing  here,  sir, 
which  gives  me  the  slightest  uneasiness; 
neither  fear,  nor  anger,  nor  that  which  is 
sometimes  more  troublesome  than  either, 
the  consciousness  of  having  been  in  the 
wrong. 

Let  me  observe  that  the  eulogium  pro- 
nounced by  the  honorable  gentleman  on 
the  character  of  the  State  of  South  Caro- 
lina, for  her  Revolutionary  and  other 
merits,  meets  my  hearty  concurrence.  I 
shall  not  acknowledge  that  the  honorable 
member  goes  before  me  in  regard  for  what- 
ever of  distinguished  talent,  or  distin- 
guished character,  South  Carolina  has 
produced.  I  claim  part  of  the  honor;  I 
partake  in  the  pride  of  her  great  names. 
I  claim  them  for  countrymen,  one  and  all 
— the  Laurenses,  the  Rutledges,  the  Pinck- 
neys,  the  Sumters,  the  Marions — Amer- 
icans all,  whose  fame  is  no  more  to  be 
hemmed  in  by  State  lines,  than  their 
talents  and  patriotism  were  capable  of  be- 
ing circumscribed  within  the  same  narrow 
limits.  In  their  day  and  generation,  they 
served  and  honored  the  country,  and  the 
whole  country;  and  their  renown  is  of  the 
treasures  of  the  whole  country.  Him 
whose  honored  name  the  gentleman  him- 
self bears, — does  he  esteem  me  less  capable 
of  gratitude  for  his  patriotism,  or  sympa- 
thy for  his  sufferings,  than  if  his  eyes  had 
first  opened  upon  the  light  of  Massachu- 
setts instead  of  South  Carolina?  Sir,  does 


ORATIONS 


339 


he  suppose  it  in  his  power  to  exhibit  a 
Carolina  name  so  bright  as  to  produce 
envy  in  my  bosom?  No,  sir,  increased 
gratification  and  delight,  rather.  I  thank 
God  that,  if  I  am  gifted  with  little  of  the 
spirit  which  is  able  to  raise  mortals  to  the 
skies,  I  have  yet  none,  as  I  trust,  of  that 
other  spirit  which  would  drag  angels 
down.  When  I  shall  be  found,  sir,  in  my 
place  here  in  the  Senate,  or  elsewhere,  to 
sneer  at  public  merit,  because  it  happens 
to  spring  up  beyond  the  little  limits  of  my 
own  State  or  neighborhood;  when  I  re- 
fuse, for  any  such  cause  or  for  any  cause, 
the  homage  due  to  American  talent,  to 
elevated  patriotism,  to  sincere  devotion  to 
liberty  and  the  country;  or,  if  I  see  an  un- 
common endowment  of  heaven,  if  I  see 
extraordinary  capacity  and  virtue,  in  any 
son  of  the  South,  and  if,  moved  by  local 
prejudice  or  gangrened  by  State  jealousy, 
I  get  up  here  to  abate  the  tithe  of  a  hair 
from  his  just  character  and  just  fame, 
may  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my 
mouth ! 

Sir,  let  me  recur  to  pleasing  recollections; 
let  me  indulge  in  refreshing  remembrance 
of  the  past;  let  me  remind  you  that,  in 
early  times,  no  States  cherished  greater 
harmony,  both  of  principle  and  feeling, 
than  Massachusetts  and  South  Carolina. 
Would  to  God  that  harmony  might  again 
return!  Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  went 
through  the  Revolution;  hand  hi  hand  they 
stood  round  the  administration  of  Wash- 
ington, and  felt  his  own  great  arm  lean 
on  them  for  support.  Unkind  feeh'ng  (if 
it  exist),  alienation,  and  distrust  are  the 
growth,  unnatural  to  such  soils,  of  false 
principles  since  sown.  They  are  weeds, 
the  seeds  of  which  that  same  great  arm 
never  scattered. 

Mr.  President,  I  shall  enter  on  no  en- 
comium upon  Massachusetts;  she  needs 
none.  There  she  is!  Behold  her,  and 
judge  for  yourselves.  There  is  her  his- 
tory; the  world  knows  it  by  heart.  The 
past,  at  least,  is  secure.  There  is  Boston, 
and  Concord,  and  Lexington,  and  Bunker 
Hill;  and  there  they  will  remain  for  ever. 
The  bones  of  her  sons,  falling  in  the  great 
struggle  for  Independence,  now  lie  mingled 


with  the  soil  of  every  State  from  New 
England  to  Georgia;  and  there  they  will 
lie  for  ever.  And,  sir,  where  American 
Liberty  raised  its  first  voice,  and  where 
its  youth  was  nurtured  and  sustained, 
there  it  still  lives,  in  the  strength  of  its 
manhood  and  full  of  its  original  spirit. 
If  discord  and  disunion  shall  wound  it, 
if  party  strife  and  blind  ambition  shall 
hawk  at  and  tear  it,  if  folly  and  madness, 
if  uneasiness  under  salutary  and  necessary 
restraint,  shall  succeed  in  separating  it 
from  that  Union  by  which  alone  its  exist- 
ence is  made  sure,  it  wi-1  stand,  in  the  end, 
by  the  side  of  that  cradle  in  which  its 
infancy  was  rocked;  it  will  stretch  forth 
its  arm  with  whatever  of  vigor  it  may 
still  retain  over  the  friends  who  gather 
round  it;  and  it  will  fall  at  last,  if  fall  it 
must,  amid  the  proudest  monuments  of 
its  own  glory,  and  on  the  very  spot  of  its 
origin. 

There  yet  remains  to  be  performed,  Mr. 
President,  by  far  the  most  grave  and  im- 
portant duty  which  I  feel  to  be  devolved 
on  me  by  this  occasion.  It  is  to  state,  and 
to  defend,  what  I  conceive  to  be  the  true 
principles  of  the  Constitution  under  which 
we  are  here  assembled.  I  might  well  have 
desired  that  so  weighty  a  task  should  have 
fallen  into  other  and  abler  hands.  I  co'^ld 
have  wished  that  it  should  have  been  exe- 
cuted by  those  whose  character  and  ex- 
perience give  weight  and  influence  to  their 
opinions,  such  as  can  not  possibly  belong 
to  mine.  But,  sir,  I  have  met  the  occasion, 
not  sought  it;  and  I  shall  proceed  to  state 
my  own  sentiments,  without  challenging 
for  them  any  particular  regard,  with  stud- 
ied plainness,  and  as  much  precision  as 
possible. 

I  understand  the  honorable  gentleman 
from  South  Carolina  to  maintain  that  it  is 
a  right  of  the  State  Legislatures  to  inter- 
fere whenever,  in  their  judgment,  this 
government  transcends  its  constitutional 
limits,  and  to  arrest  the  operation  of  its  laws. 

I  understand  him  to  maintain  this  right, 
as  a  right  existing  under  the  Constitution, 
not  as  a  right  to  overthrow  it  on  the  ground 
of  extreme  necessity,  such  as  would  justify 
violent  revolution, 


390 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


I  understand  him  to  maintain  an  au- 
thority, on  the  part  of  the  States,  thus  to 
interfere,  for  the  purpose  of  correcting  the 
exercise  of  power  by  the  general  govern- 
ment, of  checking  it,  and  of  compelling  it 
to  conform  to  their  opinion  of  the  extent 
of  its  powers.  I  understand  him  to 
maintain  that  the  ultimate  power  of  judg- 
ing of  the  constitutional  extent  of  its  own 
authority  is  not  lodged  exclusively  in  the 
general  government,  or  any  branch  of  it; 
but  that,  on  the  contrary,  the  States  may 
lawfully  decide  for  themselves,  and  each 
State  for  itself,  whether,  in  a  given  case, 
the  act  of  the  general  government  tran- 
scends its  power. 

I  understand  him  to  insist  that,  if  the 
exigency  of  the  case,  in  the  opinion  of  any 
State  government,  require  it,  such  State 
government  may,  by  its  own  sovereign 
authority,  annul  an  act  of  the  general 
government  which  it  deems  plainly  and 
palpably  unconstitutional. 

This  is  the  sum  of  what  I  understand 
from  him  to  be  the  South  Carolina  doc- 
trine, and  the  doctrine  which  he  main- 
tains. I  propose  to  consider  it,  and  com- 
pare it  with  the  Constitution.  Allow  me 
to  say,  as  a  preliminary  remark,  that  I  call 
this  the  South  Carolina  doctrine  only 
because  the  gentleman  himself  has  so 
denominated  it.  I  do  not  feel  at  liberty 
to  say  that  South  Carolina,  as  a  State,  has 
ever  advanced  these  sentiments.  I  hope 
she  has  not,  and  never  may.  That  a  great 
majority  of  her  people  are  opposed  to  the 
tariff  laws  is  doubtless  true.  That  a  ma- 
jority, somewhat  less  than  that  just  men- 
tioned, conscientiously  believe  these  laws 
unconstitutional  may  probably  also  be 
true.  But  that  any  majority  holds  to  the 
right  of  direct  State  interference  at  State 
discretion,  the  right  of  nullifying  acts  of 
Congress  by  acts  of  State  legislation,  is 
more  than  I  know,  and  what  I  shall  be 
slow  to  believe. 

That  there  are  individuals  besides  the 
honorable  gentlemen  who  do  maintain 
these  opinions,  is  quite  certain.  I  recol- 
lect the  recent  expression  of  a  sentiment, 
which  circumstances  attending  its  utter- 
ance and  publication  justify  us  in  suppos-  , 


ing  was  not  unpremeditated.  ' '  The  sover- 
eignty of  the  State, — never  to  be  con- 
trolled, construed,  or  decided  on,  but  by 
her  own  feelings  of  honorable  justice." 

We  all  know  that  civil  institutions  are 
established  for  the  public  benefit,  and  that 
when  they  cease  to  answer  the  ends  of  their 
existence  they  may  be  changed.  But  I 
do  not  understand  the  doctrine  now  con- 
tended for  to  be  that  which,  for  the  sake  of 
distinction,  we  may  call  the  right  of  revo- 
lution. I  understand  the  gentleman  to 
maintain  that  it  is  constitutional  to  in- 
terrupt the  administration  of  the  Consti- 
tution itself,  in  the  hands  of  those  who  are 
chosen  and  sworn  to  administer  it,  by  the 
direct  interference,  in  form  of  law,  of  the 
States,  in  virtue  of  their  sovereign  ca- 
pacity. The  inherent  right  in  the  people 
to  reform  their  government  I  do  not  deny; 
and  they  have  another  right,  and  that  is 
to  resist  unconstitutional  laws,  without 
overturning  the  government.  It  is  no 
doctrine  of  mine  that  unconstitutional 
laws  bind  the  people.  The  great  question 
is,  Whose  prerogative  is  it  to  decide  on 
the  constitutionality  or  unconstitution- 
ality  of  the  laws?  On  that  the  main 
debate  hinges. 

The  proposition  that  in  case  of  a  sup- 
posed violation  of  the  Constitution  by 
Congress  the  States  have  a  constitutional 
right  to  interfere  and  annul  the  law  of  Con- 
gress, is  the  proposition  of  the  gentleman. 
I  do  not  admit  it.  If  the  gentleman  had 
intended  no  more  than  to  assert  the  right 
of  revolution  for  justifiable  cause,  he 
would  have  said  only  what  all  agree  to. 
But  I  can  not  conceive  that  there  can  be  a 
middle  course,  between  submission  to  the 
laws  when  regularly  pronounced  constitu- 
tional, on  the  one  hand,  and  open  resist- 
ance (which  is  revolution  or  rebellion)  on 
the  other. 

This  leads  us  to  inquire  into  the  origin 
of  this  government  and  the  source  of  its 
power.  Whose  agent  is  it?  Is  it  the  crea- 
ture of  the  State  Legislatures,  or  the 
creature  of  the  people?  If  the  govern- 
ment of  the  United  States  be  the  agent 
of  the  State  governments,  then  they  may 
control  it,  provided  they  can  agree  in  the 


ORATIONS 


391 


manner  of  controlling  it;  if  it  be  the  agent 
of  the  people,  then  the  people  alone  can 
control  it,  restrain  it,  modify,  or  reform  it. 
It  is  observable  enough  that  the  doctrine 
for  which  the  honorable  gentleman  con- 
tends leads  him  to  the  necessity  of  main- 
taining, not  only  that  this  general  govern- 
ment is  the  creature  of  the  States,  but  that 
it  is  the  creature  of  each  of  the  States 
severally,  so  that  each  may  assert  the 
power  for  itself  of  determining  whether  it 
acts  within  the  limits  of  its  authority.  It 
is  the  servant  of  four-and-twenty  masters, 
of  different  wills  and  different  purposes, 
and  yet  bound  to  obey  all.  This  absurdity 
(for  it  seems  no  less)  arises  from  a  miscon- 
ception as  to  the  origin  of  this  government 
and  its  true  character.  It  is,  sir,  the 
people's  Constitution,  the  people's  govern- 
ment, made  for  the  people,  made  by  the 
people,  and  answerable  to  the  people.  The 
people  of  the  United  States  have  declared 
that  this  Constitution  shall  be  the  supreme 
kw.  We  must  either  admit  the  proposi- 
tion or  dispute  their  authority. 

The  States  are,  unquestionably,  sov- 
ereign, so  far  as  their  sovereignty  is  not 
affected  by  the  supreme  law.  But  the 
State  Legislatures,  as  political  bodies, 
however  sovereign,  are  yet  not  sovereign 
over  the  people.  So  far  as  the  people 
have  given  power  to  the  general  govern- 
ment, so  far  the  grant  is  unquestionably 
good,  and  the  government  holds  of  the 
people,  and  not  of  the  State  governments. 
We  are  all  agents  of  the  same  supreme 
power,  the  people.  The  general  govern- 
ment and  the  State  governments  derive 
their  authority  from  the  same  source. 
Neither  can,  in  relation  to  the  other,  be 
called  primary,  the  one  is  definite  and 
restricted,  and  the  other  general  and 
residuary.  The  national  government  pos- 
sesses those  powers  which  it  can  be  shown 
the  people  have  conferred  on  it,  and  no 
more.  All  the  rest  belongs  to  the  State 
governments,  or  to  the  people  themselves. 
So  far  as  the  people  have  restrained  State 
sovereignty,  by  the  expression  of  their  will, 
in  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States, 
so  far,  it  must  be  admitted,  State  sover- 
eignty is  effectually  controlled.  I  do  not 


contend  that  it  is,  or  ought  to  be,  con- 
trolled farther. 

The  sentiment  to  which  I  have  referred 
propounds  that  State  sovereignty  is  only 
to  be  controlled  by  its  own  "feeling  of 
justice";  that  is  to  say,  it  is  not  to  be 
controlled  at  all,  for  one  who  is  to  follow 
his  own  feelings  is  under  no  legal  control. 
Now,  however  men  may  think  this  ought 
to  be,  the  fact  is,  that  the  people  of  the 
United  States  have  chosen  to  impose  con- 
trol on  State  sovereignties.  There  are 
those,  doubtless,  who  wish  they  had  been 
left  without  restraint;  but  the  Constitution 
has  ordered  the  matter  differently.  To 
make  war,  for  instance,  is  an  exercise  of 
sovereignty;  but  the  Constitution  declares 
that  no  State  shall  make  war.  To  coin 
money  is  another  exercise  of  sovereign 
power;  but  no  State  is  at  liberty  to  coin 
money.  Again,  the  Constitution  says 
that  no  sovereign  State  shall  be  so  sov- 
ereign as  to  make  a  treaty.  These  prohi- 
bitions, it  must  be  confessed,  are  a  control 
on  the  State  sovereignty  of  South  Caro- 
lina, as  well  as  of  the  other  States,  which 
does  not  arise  "from  her  own  feelings  of 
honorable  justice."  The  opinion  referred 
to,  therefore,  is  in  defiance  of  the  plainest 
provisions  of  the  Constitution. 

In  Carolina,  the  tariff  is  a  palpable, 
deliberate  usurpation;  Carolina,  therefore, 
may  nullify  it,  and  refuse  to  pay  the  duties. 
In  Pennsylvania  it  is  both  clearly  constitu- 
tional and  highly  expedient;  and  there  the 
duties  are  to  be  paid.  And  yet  we  live 
under  a  government  of  uniform  laws,  and 
under  a  Constitution,  too,  which  contains 
an  express  provision,  as  it  happens,  that 
all  duties  shall  be  equal  in  all  the  States. 
Does  not  this  approach  absurdity? 

If  there  be  no  power  to  settle  such 
questions,  independent  of  either  of  the 
States,  is  not  the  whole  Union  a  rope  of 
sand?  Are  we  not  thrown  back  again, 
precisely  upon  the  old  Confederation? 

It  is  too  plain  to  be  argued.  Four-and- 
twenty  interpreters  of  constitutional  law, 
each  with  a  power  to  decide  for  itself,  and 
none  with  authority  to  bind  anybody  else, 
and  this  constitutional  kw  the  only  bond 
of  their  union!  What  is  such  a  state  of 


392 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


things  but  a  mere  connection  during 
pleasure,  or,  to  use  the  phraseology  of  the 
times,  during  feeling  ?  And  that  feeling, 
too,  not  the  feeling  of  the  people  who  es- 
tablished the  Constitution,  but  the  feeling 
of  the  State  governments. 

Resolutions,  sir,  have  been  recently 
passed  by  the  Legislature  of  South  Caro- 
lina. I  need  not  refer  to  them;  they  go 
no  farther  than  the  honorable  gentleman 
himself  has  gone,  and  I  hope  not  so  far. 
I  content  myself,  therefore,  with  debating 
the  matter  with  him. 

And  now,  sir,  what  I  have  first  to  say 
on  this  subject  is,  that  at  no  time,  and 
under  no  circumstances,  has  New  England, 
or  any  State  in  New  England,  or  any  re- 
spectable body  of  persons  in  New  England, 
or  any  public  man  of  standing  in  New 
England,  put  forth  such  a  doctrine  as 
this  Carolina  doctrine. 

The  gentleman  has  found  no  case,  he 
can  find  none,  to  support  his  own  opinions 
by  New  England  authority.  New  Eng- 
land has  studied  the  Constitution  in  other 
schools  and  under  other  teachers.  She 
looks  upon  it  with  other  regards,  and  deems 
more  highly  and  reverently  both  of  its 
just  authority  and  its  utility  and  ex- 
cellence. The  history  of  her  legislative 
proceedings  may  be  traced.  The  ephem- 
eral effusions  of  temporary  bodies,  called 
together  by  the  excitement  of  the  occasion, 
may  be  hunted  up;  they  have  been  hunted 
up.  The  opinions  and  votes  of  her  public 
men,  in  and  out  of  Congress,  may  be  ex- 
plored; it  will  all  be  in  vain.  The  Caro- 
lina doctrine  can  derive  from  her  neither 
countenance  nor  support.  She  rejects  it 
now;  she  always  did  reject  it;  and  till  she 
loses  her  senses,  she  always  will  reject  it. 

The  honorable  member  has  referred  to 
expressions  on  the  subject  of  the  embargo 
law,  made  in  this  place,  by  an  honorable 
and  venerable  gentleman,  now  favoring 
us  with  his  presence.  He  quotes  that  H;s- 
tinguished  senator  as  saying  that,  hi  his 
judgment,  the  embargo  law  was  unconsti- 
tutional, and  that  therefore,  in  his  opinion, 
the  people  were  not  bound  to  obey  it. 
That,  sir,  is  perfectly  constitutional  lan- 
guage. An  unconstitutional  law  is  not 


binding;  but  then  it  does  not  rest  with  a  reso- 
lution  or  a  law  of  a  State  Legislature  to 
decide  whether  an  act  of  Congress  be  or  be  ncl 
constitutional.  An  unconstitutional  act  of 
Congress  would  not  bind  the  people  of  this 
District,  although  they  have  no  Legislature 
to  interfere  in  their  behalf;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  constitutional  law  of  Con- 
gress does  bind  the  citizen  of  every  State, 
although  all  their  Legislatures  should  un- 
dertake to  annul  it  by  act  or  resolution. 
The  venerable  Connecticut  senator  is  a 
constitutional  lawyer  of  sound  principles 
and  enlarged  knowledge,  a  statesman  prac- 
tised and  experienced,  bred  in  the  com- 
pany of  Washington,  and  holding  just 
views  upon  the  nature  of  our  governments. 
He  believes  the  embargo  unconstitutional, 
and  so  did  others;  but  what  then?  Who 
did  he  suppose  was  to  decide  that  ques- 
tion? The  State  Legislatures?  Certainly 
not.  No  such  sentiment  ever  escaped  his 
lips. 

Let  us  follow  up,  sir,  this  New  England 
opposition  to  the  embargo  laws;  let  us 
trace  it  till  we  discern  the  principle  which 
controlled  and  governed  New  England 
throughout  the  whole  course  of  that  oppo- 
sition. We  shall  then  see  what  similarity 
there  is  between  the  New  England  school 
of  constitutional  opinions,  and  this  modern 
Carolina  school.  The  gentleman,  I  think, 
read  a  petition  from  some  single  individ- 
ual addressed  to  the  Legislature  of  Massa- 
chusetts, asserting  the  Carolina  doctrine; 
that  is,  the  right  of  State  interference  to 
arrest  the  laws  of  the  Union.  The  fate  of 
that  petition  shows  the  sentiment  of  the 
Legislature.  It  met  no  favor.  The  opin- 
ions of  Massachusetts  were  very  different. 
They  had  been  expressed  in  1798,  in  an- 
swer to  the  resolutions  of  Virginia,  and  she 
did  not  depart  from  them,  nor  bend  them 
to  the  times.  Misgoverned,  wronged, 
oppressed,  as  she  felt  herself  to  be,  she 
still  held  fast  her  integrity  to  the  Union. 
The  gentleman  may  find  in  her  proceedings 
much  evidence  of  dissatisfaction  with  the 
measures  of  government,  and  great  and 
deep  dislike  to  the  embargo — all  this  makes 
the  case  so  much  the  stronger  for  her;  for, 
notwithstanding  all  this  dissatisfaction 


ORATIONS 


393 


and  dislike,  she  still  claimed  no  right  to 
sever  the  bonds  of  the  Union.  There  was 
heat  and  there  was  anger  in  her  political 
feeling. 

Be  it  so;  but  neither  her  heat  nor  her 
anger  betrayed  her  into  infidelity  to  the 
government.  The  gentleman  labors  to 
prove  that  she  disliked  the  embargo  as 
much  as  South  Carolina  dislikes  the  tariff, 
and  expressed  her  dislike  as  strongly. 
Be  it  so;  but  did  she  propose  the  Carolina 
remedy?  Did  she  threaten  to  interfere, 
by  State  authority,  to  annul  the  laws  of  the 
Union?  That  is  the  question  for  the  gen- 
tleman's consideration. 

No  doubt,  sir,  a  great  majority  of  the 
people  of  New  England  conscientiously 
believed  the  embargo  law  of  1807  uncon- 
stitutional; as  conscientiously,  certainly, 
as  the  people  of  South  Carolina  hold  that 
opinion  of  the  tariff.  They  reasoned  thus: 
Congress  has  power  to  regulate  commerce; 
but  here  is  a  law,  they  said,  stopping  all 
commerce,  and  stopping  it  indefinitely. 
The  law  is  perpetual;  that  is,  it  is  not 
limited  in  point  of  time,  and  must  of  course 
continue  until  it  shah1  be  repealed  by  some 
other  law.  It  is  perpetual,  therefore,  as 
the  law  against  treason  or  murder.  Now, 
is  this  regulating  commerce  or  destroying 
it?  Is  it  guiding,  controlling,  giving  the 
rule  to  commerce,  as  a  subsisting  tiling,  or 
is  it  putting  an  end  to  it  altogether? 
Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  a  ma- 
jority in  New  England  deemed  this  law  a 
violation  of  the  Constitution.  The  very 
case  required  by  the  gentleman  to  justify 
State  interference  had  then  arisen.  Mas- 
sachusetts believed  this  law  to  be  "a 
deliberate,  palpable,  and  dangerous  exer- 
cise of  a  power  not  granted  by  the  Con- 
stitution." Deliberate  it  was,  for  it  was 
long  continued;  palpable  she  thought  it, 
as  no  words  in  the  Constitution  gave  the 
power,  and  only  a  construction,  in  her 
opinion  most  violent,  raised  it;  dangerous 
it  was,  since  it  threatened  utter  ruin  to 
her  most  important  interests. 

Here,  then,  was  a  Carolina  case.  How 
did  Massachusetts  deal  with  it?  It  was, 
as  she  thought,  a  plain,  manifest,  palpable 
violation  of  the  Constitution,  and  it 


brought  ruin  to  her  doors.  Thousands  of 
famifies,  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
individuals,  were  beggared  by  it.  While 
she  saw  and  felt  all  this,  she  saw  and  felt 
also  that,  as  a  measure  of  national  policy, 
it  was  perfectly  futile;  that  the  country 
was  in  no  way  benefited  by  that  which 
caused  so  much  individual  distress;  that 
it  was  efficient  only  for  the  production  of 
evil,  and  all  that  evil  inflicted  on  ourselves. 
In  such  a  case,  under  such  circumstances, 
how  did  Massachusetts  demean  herself? 
Sir,  she  remonstrated,  she  memorialized, 
she  addressed  herself  to  the  general  gov- 
ernment, not  exactly  "with  the  concen- 
trated energy  of  passion,"  but  with  her 
own  strong  sense,  and  the  energy  of  sober 
conviction. 

But  she  did  not  interpose  the  arm  of  her 
own  power  to  arrest  the  law  and  break  the 
embargo.  Far  from  it.  Her  principles 
bound  her  to  two  things,  and  she  followed 
her  principles,  lead  where  they  might: 
first,  to  submit  to  every  constitutional  law 
of  Congress;  and  secondly,  if  the  constitu- 
tional validity  of  the  law  be  doubted,  to 
refer  that  question  to  the  decision  of  the 
proper  tribunals.  The  first  principle  is 
vain  and  ineffectual  without  the  second. 
A  majority  of  us  in  New  England  believed 
the  embargo  law  unconstitutional;  but 
the  great  question  was,  and  always  will  be 
in  such  cases,  Who  is  to  decide  this? 
Who  is  to  judge  between  the  people  and 
the  government?  And,  sir,  it  is  quite 
plain  that  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States  confers  on  the  government  itself, 
to  be  exercised  by  its  appropriate  depart- 
ment, and  under  its  own  responsibility 
to  the  people,  this  power  of  deciding  ulti- 
mately and  conclusively  upon  the  just 
extent  of  its  own  authority.  If  this  had 
not  been  done,  we  should  not  have  ad- 
vanced a  single  step  beyond  the  old 
Confederation. 

Being  fully  of  the  opinion  that  the  em- 
bargo law  was  unconstitutional,  the  people 
of  New  England  were  yet  equally  clear 
in  the  opinion  (it  was  a  matter  they  did 
not  doubt  upon)  that  the  question,  after 
all,  must  be  decided  by  the  judicial  tri- 
bunals of  the  United  States.  Before  these 


394 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


tribunals,  therefore,  they  brought  the 
question.  Under  the  provisions  of  the 
law,  they  had  given  bonds  to  millions  in 
amount,  and  which  were  alleged  to  be  for- 
feited. They  suffered  the  bonds  to  be 
sued,  and  thus  raised  the  question.  In 
the  old-fashioned  way  of  settling  disputes, 
they  went  to  law.  The  case  came  to 
hearing  and  solemn  argument;  and  he  who 
espoused  their  cause  and  stood  up  for 
them  against  the  validity  of  the  embargo 
act,  was  none  other  than  the  great  man 
of  whom  the  gentleman  has  made  honor- 
able mention,  Samuel  Dexter. 

He  was  then,  sir,  in  the  fulness  of  his 
knowledge  and  the  maturity  of  his 
strength.  He  had  retired  from  long  and 
distinguished  public  service  here,  to  the 
renewed  pursuit  of  professional  duties, 
carrying  with  him  all  that  enlargement 
and  expansion,  all  the  new  strength  and 
force,  which  an  acquaintance  with  the 
more  general  subjects  discussed  in  the 
national  councils  is  capable  of  adding  to 
professional  attainment,  in  a  mind  of 
true  greatness  and  comprehension.  He 
was  a  lawyer,  and  he  was  also  a  statesman. 
He  had  studied  the  Constitution,  when  he 
filled  public  station,  that  he  might  defend 
it;  he  had  examined  its  principles  that  he 
might  maintain  them.  More  than  all 
men,  or  at  least  as  much  as  any  man,  he 
was  attached  to  the  general  government 
and  to  the  union  of  the  States.  His  feel- 
ings and  opinions  all  ran  in  that  direction. 
A  question  of  constitutional  law,  too,  was, 
of  all  subjects,  that  one  which  was  best 
suited  to  his  talents  and  learning.  Aloof 
from  technicality,  and  unfettered  by  arti- 
ficial rule,  such  a  question  gave  opportu- 
nity for  that  deep  and  clear  analysis, 
that  mighty  grasp  of  principle,  which  so 
much  distinguished  his  higher  efforts. 
His  very  statement  was  argument;  his 
inference  seemed  demonstration.  The 
earnestness  of  his  own  conviction  wrought 
conviction  in  others.  One  was  con- 
vinced, and  believed,  and  assented,  be- 
cause it  was  gratifying,  delightful,  to  think, 
and  feel,  and  believe,  in  unison  with  an 
intellect  of  such  evident  superiority. 

Sir,  the  human  mind  is  so  constituted 


that  the  merits  of  both  sides  of  a  contro- 
versy appear  very  clear  and  very  palpable 
to  those  who  respectively  espouse  them; 
and  both  sides  usually  grow  clearer  as 
the  controversy  advances.  South  Caro- 
lina sees  unconstitutionality  in  the  tariff; 
she  sees  oppression  there  also,  and  she  sees 
danger.  Pennsylvania,  with  a  vision  not 
less  sharp,  looks  at  the  same  tariff,  and 
sees  no  such  thing  in  it;  she  sees  it  all  con- 
stitutional, all  useful,  all  safe.  The  faith 
of  South  Carolina  is  strengthened  by 
opposition,  and  she  now  not  only  sees,  but 
resolves,  that  the  tariff  is  palpably  un- 
constitutional, oppressive,  and  dangerous; 
but  Pennsylvania,  not  to  be  behind  her 
neighbors,  and  equally  willing  to  strengthen 
her  own  faith  by  a  confident  assevera- 
tion, resolves,  also,  and  gives  to  every 
warm  affirmative  of  South  Carolina,  a 
plain,  downright,  Pennsylvania  negative. 
South  Carolina,  to  show  the  strength  and 
unity  of  her  opinion,  brings  her  assembly 
to  a  unanimity,  within  seven  voices; 
Pennsylvania,  not  to  be  outdone  in 
this  respect  any  more  than  in  others, 
reduces  her  dissentient  fraction  to  a  single 
vote. 

Now,  sir,  again  I  ask  the  gentleman, 
What  is  to  be  done?  Are  these  States  both 
right?  Is  he  bound  to  consider  them  both 
right?  If  not,  which  is  in  the  wrong?  or 
rather,  which  has  the  best  right  to  decide? 
And  if  he,  and  if  I,  are  not  to  know  what  the 
Constitution  means,  and  what  it  is,  till 
those  two  State  legislatures,  and  the 
twenty-two  others,  shall  agree  in  its  con- 
struction, what  have  we  sworn  to  when 
we  have  sworn  to  maintain  it?  I  was 
forcibly  struck,  sir,  with  one  reflection, 
as  the  gentleman  went  on  in  his  speech. 
He  quoted  Mr.  Madison's  resolutions,  to 
prove  that  a  State  may  interfere,  in  a  case 
of  deliberate,  palpable,  and  dangerous 
exercise  of  a  power  not  granted.  The 
honorable  member  supposes  the  tariff  law 
to  be  such  an  exercise  of  power;  and  that 
consequently  a  case  has  arisen  in  which 
the  State  may,  if  it  see  fit,  interfere  by  its 
own  law.  Now  it  so  happens,  neverthe- 
less, that  Mr.  Madison  deems  this  same 
tariff  law  quite  constitutional.  Instead 


ORATIONS 


395 


of  a  clear  and  palpable  violation,  it  is,  in 
his  judgment,  no  violation  at  all.  So  that, 
while  they  use  his  authority  for  a  hypo- 
thetical case,  they  reject  it  in  the  very  case 
before  them.  All  this,  sir,  shows  the 
inherent  futility — I  had  almost  used  a 
stronger  word — of  conceding  this  power 
of  interference  to  the  State,  and  then  at- 
tempting to  secure  it  from  abuse  by  im- 
posing qualifications  of  which  the  States 
themselves  are  to  judge.  One  of  two 
things  is  true:  either  the  laws  of  the  Union 
are  beyond  the  discretion  and  beyond 
the  control  of  the  States;  or  else  we  have 
no  constitution  of  general  government, 
and  are  thrust  back  again  to  the  days  of 
the  Confederation. 

Let  me  here  say,  sir,  that  if  the  gentle- 
man's doctrine  had  been  received  and  acted 
upon  in  New  England,  in  the  times  of  the 
embargo  and  non-intercourse,  we  should 
probably  not  now  have  been  here.  The 
government  would  very  likely  have  gone 
to  pieces  and  crumbled  into  dust.  No 
stronger  case  can  ever  arise  than  existed 
under  those  laws;  no  States  can  ever  enter- 
tain a  clearer  conviction  than  the  New 
England  States  then  entertained;  and  if 
they  had  been  under  the  influence  of  that 
heresy  of  opinion,  as  I  must  call  it,  which 
the  honorable  member  espouses,  this 
Union  would,  in  all  probability,  have  been 
scattered  to  the  four  winds.  I  ask  the 
gentleman,  therefore,  to  apply  his  princi- 
ples to  that  case;  I  ask  him  to  come  forth 
and  declare  whether,  in  his  opinion,  the 
New  England  States  would  have  been 
justified  in  interfering  to  break  up  the 
embargo  system  under  the  conscientious 
opinions  which  they  held  upon  it?  Had 
they  a  right  to  annul  that  law?  Does  he 
admit  or  deny?  If  what  is  thought  pal- 
pably unconstitutional  in  South  Carolina 
justifies  that  State  in  arresting  the  prog- 
ress of  the  law,  tell  me  whether  that 
which  was  thought  palpably  unconsti- 
tutional also  in  Massachusetts  would  have 
justified  her  in  doing  the  same  thing? 
Sir,  I  deny  the  whole  doctrine.  It  has  not 
a  foot  of  ground  in  the  Constitution  to 
stand  on.  No  public  man  of  reputation 
ever  advanced  it  in  Massachusetts  in  the 


warmest  times,  or  could  maintain  himself 
upon  it  there  at  any  time. 

I  must  now  beg  to  ask,  sir,  Whence  is 
this  supposed  right  of  the  States  derived? 
Where  do  they  find  the  power  to  interfere 
with  the  laws  of  the  Union?  Sir,  the 
opinion  which  the  honorable  gentleman 
maintains  is  a  notion  founded  on  a  total 
misapprehension,  in  my  judgment,  of  the 
origin  of  this  government,  and  of  the  foun- 
dation on  which  it  stands.  I  hold  it  to  be 
a  popular  government,  erected  by  the 
people;  those  who  administer  it  respon- 
sible to  the  people;  and  itself  capable  of 
being  amended  and  modified,  just  as  the 
people  may  choose  it  should  be.  It  is  as 
popular,  just  as  truly  emanating  from  the 
people,  as  the  State  governments.  It  is 
created  for  one  purpose;  the  State  govern- 
ments for  another.  It  has  its  own  powers ; 
they  have  theirs.  There  is  no  more 
authority  with  them  to  arrest  the  opera- 
tion of  a  law  of  Congress,  than  with  Con- 
gress to  arrest  the  operation  of  their  laws. 

We  are  here  to  administer  a  Constitu- 
tion emanating  immediately  from  the 
people,  and  trusted  by  them  to  our  admin- 
istration. It  is  not  the  creature  of  the 
State  governments.  It  is  of  no  moment 
to  the  argument,  that  certain  acts  of  the 
State  Legislatures  are  necessary  to  fill  our 
seats  in  this  body.  That  is  not  one  of  their 
original  State  powers,  a  part  of  the  sov- 
ereignty of  the  State.  It  is  a  duty  which 
the  people,  by  the  Constitution  itself, 
have  imposed  on  the  State  Legislatures, 
and  which  they  might  have  left  to  be 
performed  elsewhere,  if  they  had  seen  fit. 
So  they  have  left  the  choice  of  president 
with  electors;  but  all  this  does  not  affect 
the  proposition  that  this  whole  govern- 
ment, president,  Senate,  and  House  of 
Representatives,  is  a  popular  government. 
It  leaves  it  still  all  its  popular  character. 
The  governor  of  a  State  (in  some  of  the 
States)  is  chosen,  not  directly  by  the 
people,  but  by  those  who  are  chosen  by  the 
people,  for  the  purpose  of  performing, 
among  other  duties,  that  of  electing  a 
governor.  Is  the  government  of  the  State, 
on  that  account,  not  a  popular  govern- 
ment? This  government,  sii\  is  the  inde- 


396 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


pendent  offspring  of  the  popular  will. 
It  is  not  the  creature  of  State  Legisla- 
tures; nay,  more,  if  the.  whole  truth  must 
be  told,  the  people  brought  it  into  exis- 
tence, established  it,  and  have  hitherto 
supported  it,  for  the  very  purpose,  among 
others,  of  imposing  certain  salutary  re- 
straints on  State  sovereignties.  The 
States  can  not  now  make  war;  they  can 
not  contract  alliances;  they  can  not  make, 
each  for  itself,  separate  regulations  of 
commerce;  they  can  not  lay  imposts; 
they  can  not  coin  money.  If  this  Con- 
stitution, sir,  be  the  creature  of  State 
Legislatures,  it  must  be  admitted  that  it 
has  obtained  a  strange  control  over  the 
volitions  of  its  creators. 

To  avoid  all  possibility  of  being  mis- 
understood, allow  me  to  repeat  again,  in 
the  fullest  manner,  that  I  claim  no  powers 
for  the  government  by  forced  or  unfair 
construction.  I  admit  that  it  is  a  govern- 
ment of  strictly  limited  powers — of  enu- 
merated, specified,  and  particularized 
powers,  and  that  whatsoever  is  not  granted 
is  withheld.  But  notwithstanding  all  this, 
and  however  the  grant  of  powers  may  be 
expressed,  its  limit  and  extent  may  yet, 
in  some  cases,  admit  of  doubt;  and  the 
general  government  would  be  good  for 
nothing,  it  would  be  incapable  of  long 
existing,  if  some  mode  had  not  been  pro- 
vided in  which  those  doubts,  as  they 
should  arise,  might  be  peaceably,  but 
authoritatively,  solved. 

Mr.  President,  I  have  thus  stated  the 
reasons  of  my  dissent  to  the  doctrines 
which  have  been  advanced  and  main- 
tained. I  am  conscious  of  having  detained 
you  and  the  Senate  much  too  long.  I  was 
drawn  into  the  debate  with  no  previous 
deliberation,  such  as  is  suited  to  the  discus- 
sion of  so  grave  and  important  a  subject. 
But  it  is  a  subject  of  which  my  heart  is 
full,  and  I  have  not  been  willing  to  sup- 
press the  utterance  of  its  spontaneous 
sentiments.  I  can  not,  even  now,  persuade 
myself  to  relinquish  it,  without  expressing 
once  more  my  deep  conviction  that,  since 
it  respects  nothing  less  than  the  Union  of 
the  States,  it  is  of  most  vital  and  essential 
importance  to  the  public  happiness. 


I  profess,  sir,  in  my  career  hitherto,  to 
have  kept  steadily  in  view  the  prosperity 
and  honor  of  the  whole  country,  and  the 
preservation  of  our  federal  Union.  It  is 
to  that  Union  we  owe  our  safety  at  home, 
and  our  consideration  and  dignity  abroad. 
It  is  to  that  Union  that  we  are  chiefly 
indebted  for  whatever  makes  us  most 
proud  of  our  country.  That  Union  we 
reached  only  by  the  discipline  of  our  vir- 
tues in  the  severe  school  of  adversity. 
It  had  its  origin  in  the  necessities  of  dis- 
ordered finance,  prostrate  commerce,  and 
ruined  credit.  Under  its  benign  in- 
fluences, these  great  interests  immediately 
awoke,  as  from  the  dead,  and  sprang  forth 
with  newness  of  life.  Every  year  of  its 
duration  has  teemed  with  fresh  proofs  of 
its  utility  and  its  blessings;  and  although 
our  territory  has  stretched  out  wider  and 
wider,  and  our  population  spread  farther 
and  farther,  they  have  not  outrun  its 
protection  or  its  benefits.  It  has  been  to 
us  all  a  copious  fountain  of  national, 
social,  and  personal  happiness. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look 
beyond  the  Union,  to  see  what  might 
lie  hidden  in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I 
have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of 
preserving  liberty  when  the  bonds  that 
unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asunder. 
I  have  not  accustomed  myself  to  hang 
over  the  precipice  of  disunion,  to  sec 
whether,  with  my  short  sight,  I  can  fathom 
the  depth  of  the  abyss  below;  nor  could  I 
regard  him  as  a  safe  counselor  in  the 
affairs  of  this  government,  whose  thoughts 
should  be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not 
how  the  Union  may  be  best  preserved,  but 
how  tolerable  might  be  the  condition  of  the 
people  when  it  should  be  broken  up  and 
destroyed. 

While  the  Union  lasts,  we  have  high, 
exciting,  gratifying  prospects  spread  out 
before  us,  for  us  and  our  children.  Be- 
yond that  I  seek  not  to  penetrate  the  veil. 
God  grant  that,  in  my  day,  at  least,  that 
curtain  may  not  rise!  God  grant  that 
on  my  vision  never  may  be  opened  what 
lies  behind!  When  my  eyes  shall  be 
turned  to  behold  for  the  last  time  the 
sun  in  heaven,  may  I  not  see  him  shining 


ORATIONS 


397 


on  the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments 
of  a  once  glorious  Union;  on  States  dis- 
severed, discordant,  belligerent;  on  a  land 
rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched,  it  may 
be,  in  fraternal  blood!  Let  their  last 
feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  behold 
the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  Republic,  now 
known  and  honored  throughout  the 
earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms 
and  trophies  streaming  in  their  original 
luster,  not  a  stripe  erased  or  polluted,  nor 
a  single  star  obscured,  bearing  for  its 
motto  no  such  miserable  interrogatory 
as,  "What  is  all  this  worth?"  nor  those 
other  words  of  delusion  and  folly,  "Liberty 
first  and  Union  afterward";  but  every- 
where, spread  ah1  over  in  characters  of 
living  light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds, 
as  they  float  over  the  sea  and  over  the 
land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole 
heavens,  that  other  sentiment,  dear  to 
every  true  American  heart — Liberty  and 
Union,  now  and  for  ever,  one  and  insep- 
arable! 

(1830) 

THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD 
MACAULAY  (1800-1859) 

ON  THE  REFORM  BILL 

IT  is  a  circumstance,  sir,  of  happy 
augury  for  the  motion  before  the  House, 
that  almost  all  those  who  have  opposed 
it  have  declared  themselves  hostile  on 
principle  to  parliamentary  reform.  Two 
members,  I  think,  have  confessed  that, 
though  they  disapprove  of  the  plan  now 
submitted  to  us,  they  are  forced  to  admit 
the  necessity  of  a  change  in  the  represen- 
tative system.  Yet  even  those  gentlemen 
have  used,  as  far  as  I  have  observed,  no 
arguments  which  would  not  apply  as 
strongly  to  the  most  moderate  change  as 
to  that  which  has  been  proposed  by  his 
majesty's  government. 

The  honorable  baronet  who  has  just 
sat  down  [Sir  Robert  Peel]  has  told  us 
that  the  ministers  have  attempted  to  unite 
two  inconsistent  principles  in  one  abor- 
tive measure.  Those  were  his  very  words. 
He  thinks,  if  I  understand  him  rightly, 


that  we  ought  either  to  leave  the  repre- 
sentative system  such  as  it  is,  or  to  make 
it  perfectly  symmetrical.  I  think,  sir, 
that  the  ministers  would  have  acted  un- 
wisely if  they  had  taken  either  course. 
Their  principle  is  plain,  rational,  and  con- 
sistent. It  is  this:  to  admit  the  middle 
class  to  a  large  and  direct  share  in  the 
representation,  without  any  violent  shock 
to  the  institutions  of  our  country.  [Hear ! 
hear!]  I  understand  those  cheers;  but 
surely  the  gentlemen  who  utter  them  will 
allow  that  the  change  which  will  be  made 
in  our  institutions  by  this  bill  is  far  less 
violent  than  that  which,  according  to  the 
honorable  baronet,  ought  to  be  made  if 
we  make  any  reform  at  all.  I  praise  the 
ministers  for  not  attempting,  at  the  pres- 
ent time,  to  make  the  representation  uni- 
form. I  praise  them  for  not  effacing  the 
old  distinction  between  the  towns  and  the 
counties,  and  for  not  assigning  members  to 
districts,  according  to  the  American  prac- 
tise, by  the  Rule  of  Three.  The  govern* 
ment  has,  in  my  opinion,  done  all  that  was 
necessary  for  the  removal  of  a  great  prac- 
tical evil,  and  no  more  than  was  necessary. 

I  consider  this,  sir,  as  a  practical  ques- 
tion. I  rest  my  opinion  on  no  general 
theory  of  government.  I  distrust  all 
general  theories  of  government.  I  will 
not  positively  say  that  there  is  any  form 
of  polity  which  may  not,  in  some  con 
ceivable  circumstances,  be  the  best  pos- 
sible. I  believe  that  there  are  societies 
in  which  every  man  may  safely  be  ad- 
mitted to  vote.  [Hear!  hear!]  Gentle- 
men may  cheer,  but  such  is  my  opinion. 
I  say,  sir,  that  there  are  countries  in  which 
the  condition  of  the  laboring  classes  is 
such  that  they  may  safely  be  entrusted 
with  the  right  of  electing  members  of  the 
legislature.  If  the  laborers  of  England 
were  in  that  state  in  which  I,  from  my  soul, 
wish  to  see  them;  if  employment  were 
always  plentiful,  wages  always  high,  food 
always  cheap;  if  a  large  family  were  con- 
sidered not  as  an  encumbrance  but  as  a 
blessing,  the  principal  objections  to  univer- 
sal suffrage  would,  I  think,  be  removed. 

Universal  suffrage  exists  in  the  United 
States  without  producing  any  very  fright- 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ful  consequences;  and  I  do  not  believe 
that  the  people  of  those  States,  or  of  any 
part  of  the  world,  are  in  any  good  quality 
naturally  superior  to  our  own  countrymen. 
But,  unhappily,  the  laboring  classes  in 
England,  and  in  all  old  countries,  are 
occasionally  in  a  state  of  great  distress. 
Some  of  the  causes  of  this  distress  are,  I 
fear,  beyond  the  control  of  the  govern- 
ment. We  know  what  effect  distress  pro- 
duces, even  on  people  more  intelligent 
than  the  great  body  of  the  laboring 
classes  can  possibly  be.  We  know  that  it 
makes  even  wise  men  irritable,  unreason- 
able, credulous,  eager  for  immediate  relief, 
heedless  of  remote  consequences.  There 
is  no  quackery  in  medicine,  religion,  or 
politics,  which  may  not  impose  even  on  a 
powerful  mind,  when  that  mind  has  been 
disordered  by  pain  or  fear.  It  is  therefore 
no  reflection  on  the  poorer  class  of  English- 
men, who  are  not,  and  who  can  not  in  the 
nature  of  things  be,  highly  educated,  to 
say  that  distress  produces  on  them  its 
natural  effects,  those  effects  which  it 
would  produce  on  the  Americans,  or  on 
any  other  people;  that  it  blinds  their 
judgment,  that  it  inflames  their  passions, 
that  it  makes  them  prone  to  believe  those 
who  flatter  them,  and  to  distrust  those 
who  would  serve  them.  For  the  sake, 
therefore,  of  the  whole  society — for  the 
sake  of  the  laboring  classes  themselves — I 
hold  it  to  be  clearly  expedient  that,  in  a 
country  like  this,  the  right  of  suffrage 
should  depend  on  a  pecuniary  qualifica- 
tion. 

But,  sir,  every  argument  which  would 
mduce  me  to  oppose  universal  suffrage 
induces  me  to  support  the  plan  which  is 
now  before  us.  I  am  opposed  to  universal 
suffrage,  because  I  think  that  it  would 
produce  a  destructive  revolution.  I  sup- 
port this  plan,  because  I  am  sure  that  it  is 
our  best  security  against  a  revolution. 
The  noble  paymaster  of  the  forces  hinted, 
delicately  indeed  and  remotely,  at  this 
subject.  He  spoke  of  the  danger  of  dis- 
appointing the  expectations  of  the  nation ; 
and  for  this  he  was  charged  with  threaten- 
ing the  House.  Sir,  in  the  year  1817, 
the  late  Lord  Londonderry  proposed  a 


suspension  of  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act. 
On  that  occasion  he  told  the  House  that, 
unless  the  measures  which  he  recom- 
mended were  adopted,  the  public  peace 
could  not  be  preserved.  Was  he  accused 
of  threatening  the  House?  Again,  in  the 
year  1819,  he  proposed  the  laws  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Six  Acts.  He  then  told 
the  House  that,  unless  the  executive 
power  were  reinforced,  all  the  institutions 
of  the  country  would  be  overturned  by 
popular  violence.  Was  he  then  accused  of 
threatening  the  House?  Will  any  gentle- 
man say  that  it  is  parliamentary  and  deco- 
rous to  urge  the  danger  arising  from  popular 
discontent  as  an  argument  for  severity; 
but  that  it  is  unparliamentary  and  indeco- 
rous to  urge  that  same  danger  as  an  argu- 
ment for  conciliation? 

I,  sir,  do  entertain  great  apprehension 
for  the  fate  of  my  country;  I  do  in  my 
conscience  believe  that,  unless  the  plan 
proposed,  or  some  similar  plan,  be  speed- 
ily adopted,  great  and  terrible  calamities 
will  befall  us.  Entertaining  this  opinion, 
I  think  myself  bound  to  state  it,  not  as  a 
threat,  but  as  a  reason.  I  support  this 
bill  because  it  will  improve  our  institu- 
tions; but  I  support  it  also  because  it 
tends  to  preserve  them. 

If  it  be  said  that  there  is  an  evil  in 
change  as  change,  I  answer  that  there  is 
also  an  evil  in  discontent  as  discontent. 
This,  indeed,  is  the  strongest  part  of  our 
case.  It  is  said  that  the  system  works 
well.  I  deny  it.  I  deny  that  a  system 
works  well  which  the  people  regard  with 
aversion.  We  may  say  here  that  it  is  a 
good  system  and  a  perfect  system.  But 
if  any  man  were  to  say  so  to  any  six  hun- 
dred and  fifty-eight  respectable  farmers  or 
shopkeepers,  chosen  by  lot  in  any  part  of 
England,  he  would  be  hooted  down  and 
laughed  to  scorn.  Are  these  the  feelings 
with  which  any  part  of  the  government 
ought  to  be  regarded?  Above  all,  are  these 
the  feelings  with  which  the  popular  branch 
of  the  legislature  ought  to  be  regarded? 

It  is  almost  as  essential  to  the  utility 
of  a  House  of  Commons  that  it  should 
possess  the  confidence  of  the  people,  as 
that  it  should  deserve  that  confidence. 


ORATIONS 


399 


Unfortunately,  that  which  is  in  theory 
the  popular  part  of  our  government,  is  in 
practise  the  unpopular  part.  Who  wishes 
to  dethrone  the  king?  Who  wishes  to 
turn  the  lords  out  of  their  House?  Here 
and  there  a  crazy  radical,  whom  the  boys 
in  the  street  point  at  as  he  walks  along. 
Who  wishes  to  alter  the  constitution  of  this 
House?  The  whole  people.  It  is  nat- 
ural that  it  should  be  so.  The  House 
of  Commons  is,  in  the  language  of  Mr. 
Burke,  a  check,  not  on  the  people,  but  for 
the  people.  While  that  check  is  efficient, 
there  is  no  reason  to  fear  that  the  king  or 
the  nobles  will  oppress  the  people.  But 
if  that  check  requires  checking,  how  is  it  to 
be  checked?  If  the  salt  shall  lose  its 
savor,  wherewith  shall  we  season  it? 
The  distrust  with  which  the  nation  re- 
gards this  House  may  be  unjust.  But 
what  then?  Can  you  remove  that  dis- 
trust? That  it  exists  can  not  be  denied. 
That  it  is  an  evil  can  not  be  denied.  That 
it  is  an  increasing  evil  can  not  be  denied. 
One  gentleman  tells  us  that  it  has  been 
produced  by  the  late  events  in  France  and 
Belgium;  another,  that  it  is  the  effect  of 
seditious  works  which  have  lately  been 
published.  If  this  feeling  be  of  origin  so 
recent,  I  have  read  history  to  little  purpose. 
Sir,  this  alarming  discontent  is  not  the 
growth  of  a  day,  or  of  a  year.  If  there  be 
any  symptoms  by  which  it  is  possible  to 
distinguish  the  chronic  diseases  of  the  body 
politic  from  its  passing  inflammations,  all 
those  symptoms  exist  in  the  present  case. 
The  taint  has  been  gradually  becoming 
more  extensive  and  more  malignant, 
through  the  whole  lifetime  of  two  gene- 
rations. We  have  tried  anodynes.  We 
have  tried  cruel  operations.  What  are 
we  to  try  now?  Who  flatters  himself 
that  he  can  turn  this  feeling  back?  Does 
there  remain  any  argument  which  escaped 
the  comprehensive  intellect  of  Mr.  Burke, 
or  the  subtlety  of  Mr.  Windham?  Does 
there  remain  any  species  of  coercion  which 
was  not  tried  by  Mr.  Pitt  and  by  Lord 
Londonderry?  We  have  had  laws.  We 
have  had  blood.  New  treasons  have  been 
created.  The  Press  has  been  shackled. 
The  Habeas  Corpus  Act  has  been  sus- 


pended. Public  meetings  have  been  pro- 
hibited. The  event  has  proved  that  these 
expedients  were  mere  palh'atives.  You  arc 
at  the  end  of  your  palliatives.  The  evil 
remains.  It  is  more  formidable  than  ever. 
What  is  to  be  done? 

Under  such  circumstances,  a  great  plan 
of  reconciliation,  prepared  by  the  ministers 
of  the  Crown,  has  been  brought  before  us 
in  a  manner  which  gives  additional  luster 
to  a  noble  name,  inseparably  associated 
during  two  centuries  with  the  dearest  lib- 
erties of  the  English  people.  I  will  not 
say  that  this  plan  is  in  all  its  details  pre- 
cisely such  as  I  might  wish  it  to  be;  but  it 
is  founded  on  a  great  and  a  sound  principle. 
It  takes  away  a  vast  power  from  a  few. 
It  distributes  that  power  through  the 
great  mass  of  the  middle  order.  Every 
man,  therefore,  who  thinks  as  I  think,  is 
bound  to  stand  firmly  by  ministers  who 
are  resolved  to  stand  or  fall  with  this 
measure.  Were  I  one  of  them,  I  would 
sooner,  infinitely  sooner,  fall  with  such  a 
measure  than  stand  by  any  other  means 
that  ever  supported  a  cabinet. 

My  honorable  friend,  the  member  for 
the  University  of  Oxford  [Sir  Robert 
Inglis]  tells  us  that  if  we  pass  this  law 
England  will  soon  be  a  republic.  The 
reformed  House  of  Commons  will,  accord- 
ing to  him,  before  it  has  sat  ten  years, 
depose  the  king  and  expel  the  lords  from 
their  House.  Sir,  if  my  honorable  friend 
could  prove  this,  he  would  have  succeeded 
in  bringing  an  argument  for  democracy 
infinitely  stronger  than  any  that  is  to  be 
found  in  the  works  of  Paine.  My  honor- 
able friend's  proposition  is  in  fact  this: 
that  our  monarchical  and  aristocratical 
institutions  have  no  hold  on  the  public 
mind  of  England;  that  these  institutions 
are  regarded  with  aversion  by  a  decided 
majority  of  the  middle  class.  This,  sir, 
I  say,  is  plainly  deducible  from  his  prop- 
osition; for  he  tells  us  that  the  represen- 
tatives of  the  middle  class  will  inevitably 
abolish  royalty  and  nobility  within  ten 
years;  and  there  is  surely  no  reason  to 
think  that  the  representatives  of  the 
middle  class  will  be  more  inclined  to  a 
democratic  revolution  than  their  constitu- 


400 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ents.  Now,  sir,  if  I  were  convinced  that 
the  great  body  of  the  middle  class  in  Eng- 
land look  with  aversion  on  monarchy  and 
aristocracy,  I  should  be  forced,  much 
a^inst  my  will,  to  come  to  this  conclusion 
that  monarchical  and  aristocratical  insti- 
tutions are  unsuited  \o  my  country. 
Monarchy  and  aristocracy,  valuable  and 
useful  as  I  think  them,  are  still  valuable 
and  useful  as  means  and  not  as  ends. 
The  end  of  government  is  the  happiness 
of  the  people,  and  I  do  not  conceive  that, 
in  a  country  like  this,  the  happiness  of  the 
people  can  be  promoted  by  a  form  of 
government  in  which  the  middle  classes 
place  no  confidence,  and  which  exists 
only  because  the  middle  classes  have  no 
organ  by  which  to  make  their  sentiments 
known.  But,  sir,  I  am  fully  convinced 
that  the  middle  classes  sincerely  wish  to 
uphold  the  royal  prerogatives  and  the  con- 
stitutional rights  of  the  peers. 

The  question  of  parliamentary  reform 
is  still  behind.  But  signs,  of  which  it  is 
impossible  to  misconceive  the  import,  do 
most  clearly  indicate  that,  unless  that 
question  also  be  speedily  settled,  property, 
and  order,  and  all  the  institutions  of  this 
great  monarchy,  will  be  exposed  to  fearful 
peril.  Is  it  possible  that  gentlemen  long 
versed  in  high  political  affairs  can  not  read 
these  signs?  Is  it  possible  that  they  can 
really  believe  that  the  representative 
system  of  England,  such  as  it  now  is,  will 
last  till  the  year  1860?  If  not,  for  what 
would  they  have  us  wait?  Would  they 
have  us  wait  merely  that  we  may  show  to 
all  the  world  how  little  we  have  profited  by 
our  own  recent  experience? 

Would  they  have  us  wait,  that  we  may 
once  again  hit  the  exact  point  where  we 
can  neither  refuse  with  authority  nor  con- 
cede with  grace?  Would  they  have  us 
wait,  that  the  numbers  of  the  discontented 
party  may  become  larger,  its  demands 
higher,  its  feelings  more  acrimonious, 
its  organization  more  complete?  Would 
they  have  us  wait  till  the  whole  tragi- 
comedy of  1827  has  been  acted  over  again; 
till  they  have  been  brought  into  office  by  a 
cry  of  "No  Reform,"  to  be  reformers, 
as  they  were  once  before  brought  into 


office  by  a  cry  of  "No  Popery,"  to  be 
emancipators?  Have  they  obliterated 
from  their  minds — gladly,  perhaps,  would 
some  among  them  obliterate  from  their 
minds — the  transactions  of  that  year? 
And  have  they  forgotten  all  the  transac- 
tions of  the  succeeding  year?  Have  they 
forgotten  how  the  spirit  of  liberty  in 
Ireland,  debarred  from  its  natural  outlet, 
found  a  vent  by  forbidden  passages? 
Have  they  forgotten  how  we  were  forced 
to  indulge  the  Catholics  in  all  the  license 
of  rebels,  merely  because  we  chose  to 
withhold  from  them  the  liberties  of  sub- 
jects? Do  they  wait  for  associations  more 
formidable  than  that  of  the  Corn  Ex- 
change, for  contributions  larger  than  the 
Rent,  for  agitators  more  violent  than 
those  who,  three  years  ago,  divided  with 
the  king  and  the  Parliament  the  sov- 
ereignty of  Ireland?  Do  they  wait  for  that 
last  and  most  dreadful  paroxysm  of  pop- 
ular rage,  for  that  last  and  most  cruel  test 
of  military  fidelity? 

Let  them  wait,  if  their  past  experience 
shall  induce  them  to  think  that  any  high 
honor  or  any  exquisite  pleasure  is  to  be 
obtained  by  a  policy  like  this.  Let  them 
wait,  if  this  strange  and  fearful  infatuation 
be  indeed  upon  them,  that  they  should 
not  see  with  their  eyes,  or  hear  with  their 
ears,  or  understand  with  their  heart. 
But  let  us  know  our  interest  and  our  duty 
better.  Turn  where  we  may,  within, 
around,  the  voice  of  great  events  is  pro- 
claiming to-  us:  Reform,  that  you  may 
preserve.  Now,  therefore,  while  every- 
thing at  home  and  abroad  forebodes  ruin  to 
those  who  persist  in  a  hopeless  struggle 
against  the  spirit  of  the  age;  now,  while 
the  crash  of  the  proudest  throne  of  the 
continent  is  still  resounding  in  our  ears; 
now,  while  the  roof  of  a  British  palace 
affords  an  ignominious  shelter  to  the  exiled 
heir  of  forty  kings;  now,  while  we  see  on 
every  side  ancient  institutions  subverted, 
and  great  societies  dissolved;  now,  while 
the  heart  of  England  is  still  sound;  now, 
while  old  feelings  and  old  associations 
retain  a  power  and  a  charm  which  may 
too  soon  pass  away;  now,  in  this  your  ac^ 
cepted  time,  now,  in  this  your  day  of  sal- 


ORATIONS 


401 


vation,  take  counsel,  not  of  prejudice, 
not  of  party  spirit,  not  of  the  ignominious 
pride  of  a  fatal  consistency,  but  of  history, 
of  reason,  of  the  ages  which  are  past,  of  the 
signs  of  this  most  portentous  time. 

Pronounce  in  a  manner  worthy  of  the 
expectation  with  which  this  great  debate 
has  been  anticipated,  and  of  the  long  re- 
membrance which  it  will  leave  behind. 
Renew  the  youth  of  the  State.  Save 
property,  divided  against  itself.  Save 
the  multitude,  endangered  by  its  own  un- 
governable passions.  Save  the  aristoc- 
racy, endangered  by  its  own  unpopular 
power.  Save  the  greatest,  and  fairest, 
and  most  highly  civilized  community 
that  ever  existed,  from  calamities  which 
may  in  a  few  days  sweep  away  all  the  rich 
heritage  of  so  many  ages  of  wisdom  and 
glory.  The  danger  is  terrible.  The  time 
is  short.  If  this  bill  should  be  rejected,  I 
pray  to  God  that  none  of  those  who  concur 
in  rejecting  it  may  ever  remember  their 
votes  with  unavailing  remorse,  amid  the 
wreck  of  laws,  the  confusion  of  ranks,  the 
spoliation  of  property,  and  the  dissolution 
,)f  social  order. 

(1831) 


GIUSEPPE  MAZZINI  (1805-1872) 
To  THE  YOUNG  MEN  OF  ITALY* 

WHEN  I  was  commissioned  by  you, 
young  men,  to  proffer  in  this  temple  a  few 
words  consecrated  to  the  memory  of  the 
brothers  Bandiera,  and  their  fellow  mar- 
tyrs at  Cosenza,  I  thought  some  one  of 
those  who  heard  me  might,  perhaps,  ex- 
claim, with  noble  indignation:  "Why 
thus  lament  over  the  dead?  The  mar- 
tyrs of  liberty  can  be  worthily  honored 
only  by  winning  the  battle  they  began. 
Cosenza,  the  land  where  they  fell,  is  en- 
slaved; Venice,  the  city  of  their  birth,  is 
begirt  with  strangers.  Let  us  emancipate 
them;  and,  until  that  moment,  let  no 
words  pass  our  lips,  save  those  of  war." 

But  another  thought  arose,  and  sug- 
gested to  me  the  inquiry,  Why  have  we 

Translation  reprinted  from  "The  World's  Famous  Orations," 
by  permission  of  the  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Company. 


not  conquered?  Why  is  it  that,  while  our 
countrymen  are  fighting  for  independence 
in  the  North,  liberty  is  perishing  in  the 
South?  Why  is  it  that  a  war  which 
should  have  sprung  to  the  Alps  with  the 
bound  of  a  lion  has  dragged  itself  along  for 
four  months  with  the  slow,  uncertain 
motion  of  the  scorpion  surrounded  by  a 
circle  of  fire?  How  has  the  rapid  and 
powerful  intuition  of  a  people  newly  arisen 
to  life  been  converted  into  the  weary, 
helpless  effort  of  a  sick  man,  turning  from 
side  to  side? 

Ah,  had  we  all  arisen  strong  in  the  sanc- 
tity of  the  idea  for  which  our  martyrs  died; 
had  the  holy  standard  of  their  faith  in- 
spired our  youth  to  battle;  had  we  made  of 
our  every  thought  an  action,  and  of  our 
every  action  a  thought;  had  we  learned 
from  them  that  liberty  and  independence 
are  one,  we  should  not  now  have  war,  but 
victory !  Cosenza  would  not  be  compelled 
to  venerate  the  memory  of  her  martyrs 
in  secret,  nor  Venice  be  restrained  from1 
honoring  them  with  a  monument.  We, 
here  gathered  together,  then  might  gladly 
invoke  those  sacred  names  without  un- 
certainty as  to  our  future  destiny  or  a 
cloud  of  sadness  on  our  brows;  and  we 
might  say  to  those  precursor  souls:  "Re- 
joice, for  your  spirit  is  incarnate  in  your 
brethren,  and  they  are  worthy  of  you." 
Could  Attilio  and  Emilio  Bandiera  and 
their  fellow  martyrs  now  rise  from  the 
grave  and  speak  to  you,  they  would, 
believe  me,  address  you,  though  with  a 
power  very  different  from  that  which  is 
given  to  me,  in  counsel  not  unlike  that 
which  I  now  utter. 

Love  is  the  flight  of  the  soul  toward  God : 
toward  the  great,  the  sublime,  and  the 
beautiful,  which  are  the  shadows  of  God 
upon  earth.  Love  your  family;  the  part- 
ner of  your  life;  those  around  you,  ready 
to  share  your  joys  and  sorrows;  the  dead 
who  were  dear  to  you,  and  to  whom  you 
were  dear.  Love  your  country.  It  is 
your  name,  your  glory,  your  sign  among 
the  peoples.  Give  to  it  your  thought, 
your  counsel,  your  blood.  You  are  twenty- 
four  millions  of  men,  endowed  with  active 
and  splendid  faculties;  with  a  tradition 


402 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


of  glory  which  is  the  envy  of  the  nations  of 
Europe.  An  immense  _  future  is  before 
you.  Your  eyes  are  raised  to  the  loveliest 
heaven,  and  around  you  smiles  the  love- 
liest land  in  Europe.  You  are  encircled 
by  the  Alps  and  the  sea,  boundaries  marked 
out  by  the  finger  of  God  for  a  people  of 
giants. 

And  you  must  be  such,  or  nothing.  Let 
not  a  man  of  that  twenty-four  millions 
remain  excluded  from  the  fraternal  bond 
which  shall  join  you  together;  let  not  a 
look  be  raised  to  heaven  which  is  not  that 
of  a  free  man.  Love  humanity.  You 
can  only  ascertain  your  own  mission  from 
the  aim  placed  by  God  before  humanity 
at  large.  Beyond  the  Alps,  beyond  the 
sea,  are  other  peoples,  now  fighting,  or 
preparing  to  fight,  the  holy  fight  of  inde- 
pendence, of  nationality,  of  liberty;  other 
peoples  striving  by  different  routes  to 
reach  the  same  goal.  Unite  with  them 
and  they  will  unite  with  you. 

And,  young  men,  love  and  reverence 
the  Ideal;  that  is  the  country  of  the  spirit, 
the  city  of  the  soul,  in  which  all  are  breth- 
ren who  believe  in  the  inviolability  of 
thought,  and  in  the  dignity  of  our  im- 
mortal natures.  From  that  high  sphere 
spring  the  principles  which  alone  can  re- 
deem peoples.  Love  enthusiasm — the 
pure  dreams  of  the  virgin  soul,  and  the 
lofty  visions  of  early  youth;  for  they  are 
the  perfume  of  Paradise,  which  the  soul 
preserves  in  issuing  from  the  hands  of  its 
Creator.  Respect,  above  all  things,  your 
conscience;  have  upon  your  lips  the  truth 
that  God  has  placed  in  your  hearts;  and, 
while  working  together  in  harmony  in  all 
that  tends  to  the  emancipation  of  our  soil, 
even  with  those  who  differ  from  you,  yet 
ever  bear  erect  your  own  banner,  and 
boldly  promulgate  your  faith. 

Such  words,  young  men,  would  the 
martyrs  of  Cosenza  have  spoken  had  they 
been  living  among  you.  And  here,  where, 
perhaps,  invoked  by  our  love,  their  holy 
spirits  hover  near  us,  I  call  upon  you  to 
gather  them  up  in  your  hearts,  and  to 
make  of  them  a  treasure  amid  the  storms 
that  yet  threaten  you,  but  which,  with  the 
name  of  our  martyrs  on  your  lips,  and 


their  faith  in  your  hearts,  you  will  over- 
come.    God  be  with  you  and  bless  Italy! 

(1848) 

GIUSEPPE   GARIBALDI    (1807-1882) 
To  His  SOLDIERS* 

WE  MUST  now  consider  the  period  which 
is  just  drawing  to  a  close  as  almost  the  last 
stage  of  our  national  resurrection,  and 
prepare  ourselves  to  finish  worthily  the 
marvelous  design  of  the  elect  of  twenty 
generations,  the  completion  of  which  Prov- 
idence has  reserved  for  this  fortunate 
age. 

Yes,  young  men,  Italy  owes  to  you  an 
undertaking  which  has  merited  the  ap- 
plause of  the  universe.  You  have  con- 
quered and  you  will  conquer  still,  because 
you  are  prepared  for  the  tactics  that 
decide  the  fate  of  battles.  You  are  not 
unworthy  the  men  who  entered  the  ranks 
of  a  Macedonian  phalanx,  and  who  con- 
tended not  in  vain  with  the  proud  con- 
querors of  Asia.  To  this  wonderful  page 
in  our  country's  history  another  more 
glorious  still  will  be  added,  and  the  slave 
shall  show  at  last  to  his  free  brothers  a 
sharpened  sword  forged  from  the  links  of 
his  fetters. 

To  arms,  then,  all  of  you!  all  of  you! 
And  the  oppressors  and  the  mighty  shall 
disappear  like  dust.  You,  too,  women, 
cast  away  all  the  cowards  from  your 
embraces ;  they  will  give  you  only  cowards 
for  children,  and  you  who  are  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  land  of  beauty  must  bear  chil- 
dren who  are  noble  and  brave.  Let  timid 
doctrinaires  depart  from  among  us  to 
carry  their  servility  and  their  miserable 
fears  elsewhere.  This  people  is  its  own 
master.  It  wishes  to  be  the  brother  of 
other  peoples,  but  to  look  on  the  insolent 
with  a  proud  glance,  not  to  grovel  before 
them  imploring  its  own  freedom.  It  will 
no  longer  follow  in  the  trail  of  men  whose 
hearts  are  foul.  No!  No!  No! 

Providence  has  presented  Italy  with 
Victor  Emmanuel.  Every  Italian  should 

•Translation  reprinted  from  "The  World's  Famous  Orations," 
by  permission  of  the  Funk  &  Wagnalls  Company. 


ORATIONS 


403 


rally  round  him.  By  the  side  of  Victor 
Emmanuel  every  quarrel  should  be  for- 
gotten, all  rancor  depart.  Once  more  I 
repeat  my  battle-cry:  "To  arms,  all — all 
of  you!"  If  March,  1861,  does  not  find 
one  million  of  Italians  in  arms,  then  alas 
for  liberty,  alas  for  the  life  of  Italy.  Ah, 
no,  far  be  from  me  a  thought  which  I 
loathe  like  poison.  March  of  1861,  or 
if  need  be  February,  will  find  us  all  at  our 
post — Italians  of  Calatafimi,  Palermo, 
Ancona,  the  Volturno,  Castelfidardo,  and 
Isernia,  and  with  us  every  man  of  this  land 
who  is  not  a  coward  or  a  slave.  Let  all 
of  us  rally  round  the  glorious  hero  of 
Palestro  and  give  the  last  blow  to  the 
crumbling  edifice  of  tyranny.  Receive, 
then,  my  gallant  young  volunteers,  at  the 
honored  conclusion  of  ten  battles,  one 
word  of  farewell  from  me. 

I  utter  this  word  with  deepest  affec- 
tion and  from  the  very  bottom  of  my 
heart.  To-day  I  am  obliged  to  retire,  but 
for  a  few  days  only.  The  hour  of  battle 
will  find  me  with  you  again,  by  the  side 
of  the  champions  of  Italian  liberty.  Let 
those  only  return  to  their  homes  who  are 
called  by  the  imperative  duties  which  they 
owe  to  their  families,  and  those  who  by 
their  glorious  wounds  have  deserved  the 
credit  of  their  country.  These,  indeed, 
will  serve  Italy  in  their  homes  by  their 
counsel,  by  the  very  aspect  of  the  scars 
which  adorn  their  youthful  brows.  Apart 
from  these,  let  all  others  remain  to  guard 
our  glorious  banners.  We  shall  meet 
again  before  long  to  march  together  to  the 
redemption  of  our  brothers  who  are  still 
slaves  of  the  stranger.  We  shall  meet 
again  before  long  to  march  to  new  tri- 
umphs. 

(1860) 

CAMILLO,  COUNT  DI  CAVOUR 

(1810-1861) 

ROME  AS  THE  CAPITAL  OF  UNITED  ITALY* 

ROME  should  be  the  capital  of  Italy. 
Without  the  acceptance  of  this  premise  by 

Translation  reprinted  from  "The  World's  Famous  Orations," 
by  permission  of  the  Funk  &  W agnails  Company. 


Italy  and  all  Europe  there  can  t>e  no  so- 
lution of  the  Roman  question.  If  any  one 
could  conceive  of  a  united  Italy  having  any 
degree  of  stability,  without  Rome  for  its 
capital,  I  would  declare  the  Roman  ques- 
tion difficult,  if  not  impossible,  of  solu- 
tion. And  why  have  we  the  right,  the 
duty  of  insisting  that  Rome  shall  be  united 
to  Italy?  Because  without  Rome  as  the 
capital  of  Italy,  Italy  can  not  exist. 
This  truth  being  felt  instinctively  by  all 
Italians,  and  asserted  abroad  by  all  who 
judge  Italian  affairs  impartially,  needs  no 
demonstration.  It  is  upheld  by  the  judg- 
ment of  nations. 

And  yet,  gentlemen,  this  truth  is  sus- 
ceptible of  a  very  simple  proof.  Italy  has 
still  much  to  do  before  it  will  rest  upon  a 
stable  basis;  much  to  do  in  solving  the 
grave  problems  raised  by  unification; 
much  to  do  in  overcoming  the  obstacles 
which  tune-honored  traditions  have  op- 
posed to  this  great  undertaking.  And  if 
this  end  must  be  compassed,  it  is  essential 
that  there  shall  be  no  cause  of  dissidence 
or  of  failure.  Until  the  question  of  the 
capital  of  Italy  is  determined,  there  will 
be  endless  discords  among  the  different 
provinces. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  how  persons  of 
good  faith,  cultured  and  talented,  are  now 
suggesting,  some  on  historical,  others  on 
artistic  grounds,  the  advisability  of  estab- 
lishing the  capital  in  some  other  city. 
Such  a  discussion  is  quite  comprehensible 
now,  but  if  Italy  already  had  her  capital 
in  Rome,  do  you  think  this  question  would 
be  even  possible?  Assuredly  not.  Even 
those  who  are  now  opposed  to  transferring 
the  capital  to  Rome,  would  not  dream  of 
removing  it  if  it  were  once  established 
there.  Therefore,  it  is  only  by  proclaim- 
ing Rome  the  capital  of  Italy  that  we  can 
put  an  end  to  these  dissensions  among 
ourselves. 

I  am  grieved  that  men  of  eminence  and 
genius,  men  who  have  rendered  glorious 
service  to  the  cause  of  Italian  unity  should 
drag  this  question  into  the  field  of  debate 
and  discuss  it  with — dare  I  say  it? — puer- 
ile arguments.  The  question  of  the  capi- 
tal, gentlemen,  is  not  determined  by 


404 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


climate,  or  topography,  nor  even  by 
strategical  considerations.  If  these  things 
affected  the  selection,  ~I  think  I  might 
safely  say  that  London  would  not  be  the 
capital  of  England,  nor,  perhaps,  Paris 
of  France.  The  selection  of  the  capital  is 
determined  by  great  moral  reasons.  It  is 
the  will  of  the  people  that  decides  a  ques- 
tion touching  them  so  closely. 

In  Rome,  gentlemen,  are  united  all  the 
circumstances,  whether  historic,  intellec- 
tual, or  moral,  that  should  determine  the 
site  of  the  capital.  Rome  is  the  only  city 
with  traditions  not  purely  local.  The 
entire  history  of  Rome  from  the  time  of 
Caesar  to  the  present  day  is  the  history  of  a 
city  whose  importance  reaches  far  beyond 
her  confines;  of  a  city  destined  to  be  one 
of  the  capitals  of  the  world.  Convinced, 
profoundly  convinced,  of  this  truth,  I  feel 
constrained  to  declare  it  solemnly  to  you 
and  to  the  nation,  and  I  feel  bound  to 
appeal  in  this  matter  to  the  patriotism  of 
every  citizen  of  Italy,  and  to  the  represen- 
tatives of  her  most  eminent  cities,  that  dis- 
cussions may  cease,  and  that  he  who  rep- 
resents the  nation  before  other  powers 
may  be  able  to  proclaim  that  the  necessity 
of  having  Rome  as  the  capital  is  recog- 
nized by  all  the  nation.  I  think  I  am 
justified  in  making  this  appeal  even  to 
those  who,  for  reasons  which  I  respect, 
differ  from  me  on  this  point.  Yet  more; 
I  can  assume  no  Spartan  indifference  in 
the  matter.  I  say  frankly  that  it  will  be 
a  deep  grief  to  me  to  tell  my  native  city 
that  she  must  renounce  resolutely  and  de- 
finitively all  hope  of  being  the  seat  of  gov- 
ernment. 

As  far  as  I  am  personally  concerned,  it 
is  no  pleasure  to  go  to  Rome.  Having 
little  artistic  taste,  I  feel  sure  that  in  the 
midst  of  the  splendid  monuments  of 
ancient  and  modern  Rome  I  shall  lament 
the  plain  and  unpoetic  streets  of  my  native 
town.  But  one  thing  I  can  say  with  confi- 
dence: knowing  the  character  of  my  fellow 
citizens;  knowing  from  actual  facts  how 
ready  they  have  always  been  to  make 
the  greatest  sacrifices  for  the  sacred  cause 
of  Italy;  knowing  their  willingness  to 
make  sacrifices  when  their  city  was  in- 


vaded by  the  enemy,  and  knowing  their 
promptness  and  energy  in  its  defense; 
knowing  all  this,  I  have  no  fear  that  they 
will  not  uphold  me  when,  in  their  name 
and  as  their  deputy,  I  say  that  Turin  is 
ready  to  make  this  great  sacrifice  for  the 
interests  of  a  united  Italy. 

I  am  comforted  by  the  hope — I  may 
even  say  the  certainty — that  when  Italy 
shall  have  established  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment in  the  Eternal  City,  she  will  not  be 
ungrateful  to  this  land  which  was  the 
cradle  of  liberty;  to  this  land  in  which 
was  sown  that  germ  of  independence  which 
maturing  rapidly  and  branching  out,  has 
now  reached  forth  its  tendrils  from  Sicily 
to  the  Alps.  I  have  said  and  I  repeat: 
Rome,  and  Rome  only,  should  be  the 
capital  of  Italy. 

But  here  begin  the  difficulties.  We 
must  go  to  Rome,  but  there  are  two  con- 
ditions. We  must  go  there  in  concert 
with  France,  otherwise  the  union  of 
Rome  with  the  rest  of  Italy  would  be  inter- 
preted by  the  great  mass  of  Catholics, 
within  Italy  and  without  it,  as  the  signal 
of  the  slavery  of  the  Church.  We  must 
go,  therefore,  to  Rome  in  such  a  way  that 
the  true  independence  of  the  pontiff  shall 
not  be  diminished.  We  must  go  to  Rome, 
but  the  civil  power  must  not  extend  to 
spiritual  things.  These  are  the  two  con- 
ditions that  must  be  fulfilled  if  united 
Italy  is  to  exist. 

At  the  risk  of  being  considered  Utopian, 
I  believe  that  when  the  proclamation  of 
the  principles  which  I  have  just  declared, 
and  when  the  indorsement  of  them  that  you 
will  give  shall  become  known  and  con- 
sidered at  Rome  and  in  the  Vatican,  I 
believe,  I  say,  that  those  Italian  fibers 
which  the  reactionary  party  has,  as  yet, 
been  unable  to  remove  from  the  heart  of 
Pius  LX,  will  again  vibrate,  and  that  there 
will  be  accomplished  the  greatest  act 
that  any  people  have  yet  performed. 
And  so  it  shall  be  given  to  the  same  gene- 
ration not  only  to  have  restored  a  nation, 
but  to  have  done  what  is  yet  greater,  yet 
more  sublime — an  act  of  which  the  in- 
fluence is  incalculable,  and  which  is  to  have 
reconciled  the  papacy  with  the  civil  power, 


ORATIONS 


405" 


to  have  made  peace  between  Church  and 
State,  between  the  spirit  of  religion  and 
the  great  principles  of  liberty.  Yes,  I 
hope  that  it  will  be  given  us  to  compass 
Jiese  two  great  acts  which  will  most 
assuredly  carry  to  the  most  distant  pos- 
terity the  worthiness  of  the  present  gene- 
ration of  Italians. 

(1861) 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  (1809-1865) 
THE  "HOUSE  DIVIDED  AGAINST  ITSELF" 

IF  WE  could  first  know  where  we  are, 
and  whither  we  are  tending,  we  could 
better  judge  what  to  do,  and  how  to  do  it. 
We  are  now  far  into  the  fifth  year  since 
a  policy  was  initiated  with  the  avowed 
object,  and  confident  promise,  of  putting 
an  end  to  slavery  agitation.  Under  the 
operation  of  that  policy,  that  agitation  not 
only  has  not  ceased,  but  has  constantly 
augmented.  In  my  opinion,  it  will  not 
cease  until  a  crisis  shall  have  been  reached 
and  passed.  "A  house  divided  against 
itself  can  not  stand."  I  believe  this  gov- 
ernment can  not  endure  permanently  half 
slave  and  half  free.  I  do  not  expect 
the  Union  to  be  dissolved;  I  do  not  expect 
the  house  to  fall;  but  I  do  expect  that  it 
will  cease  to  be  divided.  It  will  become 
all  one  thing,  or  all  the  other.  Either 
the  opponents  of  slavery  will  arrest  the 
further  spread  of  it,  and  place  it  where  the 
public  mind  shall  rest  in  the  belief  that  it 
is  in  the  course  of  ultimate  extinction; 
or  its  advocates  will  push  it  forward  till  it 
shall  become  alike  lawful  in  all  the  States, 
old  as  well  as  new,  North  as  well  as  South. 
Have  we  no  tendency  to  the  latter  condi- 
tion? Let  any  one  who  doubts  carefully 
contemplate  that  now  almost  complete 
legal  combination-piece  of  machinery,  so 
to  speak — compounded  of  the  Nebraska 
doctrine  and  the  Dred  Scott  decision. 

Put  this  and  that  together,  and  we  have 
another  nice  little  niche,  which  we  may, 
ere  long,  see  filled  with  another  Supreme 
Court  decision,  declaring  that  the  Con- 
stitution of  the  United  States  does  not 


permit  a  State  to  exclude  slavery  from  its 
limits.  And  this  may  especially  be  ex- 
pected if  the  doctrine  of  "care  not  whether 
slavery  be  voted  down  or  voted  up," 
shall  gain  upon  the  public  mind  sufficiently 
to  give  promise  that  such  a  decision  can 
be  maintained  when  made. 

Such  a  decision  is  all  that  slavery  now 
lacks  of  being  alike  lawful  in  all  the  States. 
Welcome  or  unwelcome,  such  decision  is 
probably  coming,  and  will  soon  be  upon 
us,  unless  the  power  of  the  present  po- 
litical dynasty  shall  be  met  and  over- 
thrown. We  shall  lie  down  pleasantly 
dreaming  that  the  people  of  Missouri  are 
on  the  verge  of  making  their  State  free, 
and  we  shall  awake  to  the  reality,  instead, 
that  the  Supreme  Court  has  made  Illi- 
nois a  slave  State.  To  meet  and  over- 
throw that  dynasty  is  the  work  before 
all  those  who  would  prevent  that  consum- 
mation. That  is  what  we  have  to  do. 
How  can  we  best  do  it? 

There  are  those  who  denounce  us  openly 
to  their  own  friends,  and  yet  whisper  to  us 
softly  that  Senator  Douglas  is  the  aptest 
instrument  there  is  with  which  to  effect 
that  object.  They  wish  us  to  infer  all, 
from  the  fact  that  he  now  has  a  little  quar- 
rel with  the  present  head  of  the  dynasty; 
and  that  he  has  regularly  voted  with  us 
on  a  single  point,  upon  which  he  and  we 
have  never  differed.  They  remind  us  that 
he  is  a  great  man  and  that  the  largest  of 
us  are  very  small  ones.  Let  this  be 
granted.  "But  a  living  dog  is  better 
than  a  dead  lion."  Judge  Douglas,  if 
not  a  dead  lion,  for  this  work,  is  at 
least  a  caged  and  toothless  one. 

How  can  he  oppose  the  advance  of 
slavery?  He  does  not  care  anything 
about  it.  His  avowed  mission  is  impress- 
ing the  "public  heart"  to  care  nothing 
about  it.  A  leading  Douglas  Demo- 
cratic newspaper  thinks  Douglas's  su- 
perior talent  will  be  needed  to  resist  the 
revival  of  the  African  slave-trade.  Does 
Douglas  believe  an  effort  to  revive  that 
trade  is  approaching?  He  has  not  said 
so.  Does  he  really  think  so?  But  if  it  is, 
how  can  he  resist  it?  For  years  he  has 
labored  to  prove  it  a  sacred  right  of 


406 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


white  men  to  take  negro  slaves  into  the 
new  Territories.  Can  he  possibly  show 
that  it  is  less  a  sacred  right  to  buy  them 
where  they  can  be  bought  cheapest? 
And  unquestionably  they  can  be  bought 
cheaper  in  Africa  than  in  Virginia. 

He  has  done  all  in  his  power  to  reduce 
the  whole  question  of  slavery  to  one  of  a 
mere  right  of  property;  and  as  such,  how 
can  he  oppose  the  foreign  slave-trade? 
How  can  he  refuse  that  trade  in  that 
"property"  shall  be  "perfectly  free," 
unless  he  does  it  as  a  protection  to  the 
home  production?  And  as  the  home  pro- 
ducers will  probably  not  ask  the  protec- 
tion, he  will  be  wholly  without  a  ground 
of  opposition. 

Senator  Douglas  holds,  we  know,  that 
a  man  may  rightfully  be  wiser  to-day 
than  he  was  yesterday — that  he  may 
rightfully  change  when  he  finds  himself 
wrong.  But  can  we,  for  that  reason  run 
ahead,  and  infer  that  he  will  make  any 
particular  change,  of  which  he  himself  has 
given  no  intimation?  Can  we  safely 
base  our  action  upon  any  such  vague  infer- 
ence? Now,  as  ever,  I  wish  not  to  mis- 
represent Judge  Douglas's  position,  ques- 
tion his  motives,  or  do  aught  that  can  be 
personally  offensive  to  him.  Whenever, 
if  ever,  he  and  we  can  come  together  on 
principle,  so  that  our  cause  may  have 
assistance  from  his  great  ability,  I  hope 
to  have  interposed  no  adventitious  ob- 
stacle. But,  clearly,  he  is  not  now  with 
us — he  does  not  pretend  to  be,  he  does 
not  promise  ever  to  be. 

Our  cause,  then,  must  be  entrusted  to, 
and  conducted  by,  its  own  undoubted 
friends — those  whose  hands  are  free, 
whose  hearts  are  in  the  work — who  do 
care  for  the  result.  Two  years  ago  the 
Republicans  of  the  nation  mustered  over 
thirteen  hundred  thousand  strong.  We 
did  this  under  the  single  impulse  of  resis- 
tance to  a  common  danger.  With  every  ex- 
ternal circumstance  against  us,  of  strange, 
discordant,  and  even  hostile  elements,  we 
gathered  from  the  four  winds,  and  formed 
and  fought  the  battle  through,  under  the 
constant  hot  fire  of  a  disciplined,  proud, 
and  pampered  enemy.  Did  we  brave  all 


then,  to  falter  now? — now,  when  that 
same  enemy  is  wavering,  dissevered,  and 
belligerent!  The  result  is  not  doubtful. 
We  shall  not  fail — if  we  stand  firm,  we 
shall  not  fail.  Wise  counsels  may  accele- 
rate, or  mistakes  delay  it ;  but,  sooner  or 
later,  the  victory  is  sure  to  come. 

(1858) 


THE  SPEECH  AT  GETTYSBURG 

FOURSCORE  and  seven  years  ago  our 
fathers  brought  forth  upon  this  continent 
a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and 
dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men 
are  created  equal. 

Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil 
war,  testing  whether  that  nation,  or  any 
nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated, 
can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great 
battle-field  of  that  war.  We  have  come 
to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field  as  a 
final  resting-place  for  those  who  here 
gave  their  lives  that  that  nation  might 
five.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper 
that  we  should  do  this. 

But  in  a  larger  sense,  we  can  not  dedi- 
cate— we  can  not  consecrate — we  can 
not  hallow  this  ground.  The  brave  men, 
living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have 
consecrated  it  far  above  our  poor  power 
to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little 
note,  nor  long  remember,  what  we  say 
here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did 
here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather,  to  be 
dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished  work 
which  they  who  fought  here  thus  far  so 
nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be 
here  dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining 
before  us — that  from  these  honored 
dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  that 
cause  for  which  they  gave  the  last  full 
measure  of  devotion — that  we  here  highly 
resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died 
in  vain — that  this  nation,  under  God, 
shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom  and 
that  government  of  the  people,  by  the 
people,  and  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish 
from  the  earth. 

(1863? 


ORATIONS 


407 


THE  SECOND  INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 

Ax  THIS  second  appearing  to  take  the 
oath  of  the  presidential  office,  there  is 
less  occasion  for  an  extended  address 
than  there  was  at  first.  Then  a  state- 
ment, somewhat  in  detail,  of  a  course  to 
be  pursued  seemed  very  fitting  and  proper. 
Now,  at  the  expiration  of  four  years,  dur- 
ing which  public  declarations  have  been 
constantly  called  forth  on  every  point 
and  phase  of  the  great  contest  which  still 
absorbs  the  attention  and  engrosses  the 
energies  of  the  nation,  little  that  is  new 
could  be  presented. 

The  progress  of  our  arms,  upon  which 
all  else  chiefly  depends,  is  as  well  known 
to  the  public  as  to  myself,  and  it  is,  I 
trust,  reasonably  satisfactory  and  encour- 
aging to  all.  With  high  hope  for  the 
future,  no  prediction  in  regard  to  it  is 
ventured. 

On  the  occasion  corresponding  to  this 
four  years  ago,  all  thoughts  were  anx- 
iously directed  to  an  impending  civil 
war.  All  dreaded  it;  all  sought  to  avoid 
it.  While  the  inaugural  address  was 
being  delivered  from  this  place,  devoted 
altogether  to  saving  the  Union  without 
war,  insurgent  agents  were  hi  the  city 
seeking  to  destroy  it  without  war — seeking 
to  dissolve  the  Union  and  divide  the 
effects  by  negotiation.  Both  parties 
deprecated  war,  but  one  of  them  would 
make  war  rather  than  let  the  nation  sur- 
vive, and  the  other  would  accept  war 
rather  than  let  it  perish,  and  the  war 
came.  One-eighth  of  the  whole  popula- 
tion were  colored  slaves,  not  distributed 
generally  over  the  Union,  but  localized 
in  the  Southern  part  of  it. 

These  slaves  constituted  a  peculiar  and 
powerful  interest.  All  knew  that  this 
interest  was  somehow  the  cause  of  the 
war.  To  strengthen,  perpetuate,  and 
extend  this  interest  was  the  object  for 
which  the  insurgents  would  rend  the 
Union  by  war,  while  the  government 
claimed  no  right  to  do  more  than  to  re- 
strict the  Territorial  enlargement  of  it. 

Neither  party  expected  for  the  war  the 
magnitude  or  the  duration  which  it  has 


already  attained.  Neither  anticipated 
that  the  cause  of  the  conflict  might  cease 
when,  or  even  before  the  conflict  itself 
should  cease.  Each  looked  for  an  easier 
triumph,  and  a  result  less  fundamental 
and  astounding.  Both  read  the  same 
Bible  and  pray  to  the  same  God,  and  each 
invokes  His  aid  against  the  other.  It  may 
seem  strange  that  any  men  should  dare  to 
ask  a  just  God's  assistance  hi  wringing 
their  bread  from  the  sweat  of  other  men's 
faces,  but  let  us  judge  not,  that  we  be  not 
judged.  The  prayer  of  both  could  not  be 
answered.  That  of  neither  has  been 
answered  fully.  The  Almighty  has  His 
own  purposes.  "Woe  unto  the  world 
because  of  offenses,  for  it  must  needs  be 
that  offenses  come;  but  woe  to  that  man 
by  whom  the  offense  cometh!" 

If  we  shall  suppose  that  American 
slavery  is  one  of  those  offenses  which,  hi 
the  providence  of  God,  must  needs  come, 
but  which  having  continued  through  His 
appointed  tune,  He  now  wills  to  remove, 
and  that  He  gives  to  both  North  and 
South  this  terrible  war  as  the  woe  due  to 
those  by  whom  the  offense  came,  shall  we 
discern  there  any  departure  from  those 
divine  attributes  which  the  believers  in  a 
living  God  always  ascribe  to  Him? 
Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently  do  we  pray, 
that  this  mighty  scourge  of  war  may 
speedily  pass  away.  Yet  if  God  wills 
that  it  continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled 
by  the  bondsman's  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  of  unrequited  toil  shall  be  sunk,  and 
until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  with  the 
lash  shall  be  paid  by  another  drawn  with 
the  sword,  as  was  said  three  thousand 
years  ago,  so  still  it  must  be  said,  that  the 
judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true  and  right- 
eous altogether. 

With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity 
for  all,  with  firmness  in  the  right  as  God 
gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us  finish  the 
work  we  are  in,  to  bind  up  the  nation's 
wounds,  to  care  for  him  who  shall  have 
borne  the  battle,  and  for  his  widow  and 
his  orphans,  to  do  all  which  may  achieve 
and  cherish  a  just  and  a  lasting  peace 
among  ourselves  and  with  all  nations. 

(1865) 


IX 

ESSAYS 
MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE  (1533-1592) 

Montaigne  is  the  most  friendly  and  companionable  of  essayists.  A  wise  skeptic  who  studied  and 
wrote  about  himself  in  order  to  know  about  human  nature,  he  represents  the  serenity,  the  toleration, 
and  the  joy  in  an  active  but  contented  existence  which  was  the  great  lesson  of  the  Humanism  growing 
out  of  the  Renaissance. 

The  following  selection  is  based  on  Florio's  translation  (1603)  but  somewhat  modernized  in  diction 
and  idiom.  It  has  been  prepared  by  Percy  Hazen  Houston. 


OF  REPENTANCE 

OTHERS  form  man;  I  report  him,  repre- 
senting a  particular  one  [Montaigne  him- 
self] fashioned  badly  enough,  whom,  were  I 
to  fashion  anew,  I  should  make  far  other 
than  what  he  is;  but  now  it  cannot  be 
helped.  Now  though  the  lines  of  my  por- 
trait of  ttimes  change  and  vary,  yet  the  like- 
ness is  not  wholly  lost,  for  the  world  all  runs 
on  wheels;  all  things  move  therein  without 
ceasing;  the  whole  earth,  even  the  rocks 
of  Caucasus  and  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt, 
both  because  all  things  move  and  change 
both  with  the  general  motion  of  the  whole 
and  their  own  peculiar  moving.  Constancy 
itself  is  but  a  languishing  and  wavering 
dance.  I  cannot  fix  upon  my  object 
(myself);  it  moves  troubled  and  reeling 
as  in  a  drunken  dream;  I  take  it  at  the 
point  at  which  it  is  at  the  instant  when  I 
concern  myself  with  it;  I  do  not  paint  its 
essential  nature  but  a  passing  phase;  not 
a  passage  from  one  age  to  another,  or,  as 
they  say,  from  seven  years  to  seven,  but 
from  day  to  day,  from  minute  to  minute 
my  account  of  myself  must  accommodate 
itself  to  the  hour  in  which  I  write;  I  may 
presently  change,  not  only  in  outward 
fortune  but  in  outlook  and  intention.  It 
is  but  a  standard  for  comparing  many 
and  variable  accidents  and  irresolute 
imaginings  and  sometimes,  as  it  happens, 
contradictory  to  one  another.  It  may 
be  I  am  then  another  self  or  I  apprehend 
subjects  by  other  circumstances  and  con- 
siderations; so  that  I  may  perhaps  often 


contradict  myself,  but  the  truth  never. 
Could  my  soul  find  a  resting  place,  I 
would  not  merely  make  trial  of  it  but 
would  make  a  final  resolution;  but  it  is 
ever  in  apprenticeship  and  on  trial. 

I  propose  to  describe  a  life  ordinary 
and  without  luster;  it  is  all  one:  all  moral 
philosophy  may  be  applied  to  a  common 
and  private  life  as  well  as  to  one  of  richer 
material;  every  man  bears  in  himself  the 
entire  form  of  human  condition.  Other 
authors  communicate  with  the  world  by 
some  special  and  unusual  mark;  I,  the  first, 
just  as  an  ordinary  man,  as  Michel  de 
Montaigne,  not  as  a  grammarian  or  a 
poet  or  a  lawyer.  If  the  world  complains 
that  I  speak  too  much  of  myself,  I  com- 
plain that  it  thinks  no  more  of  itself. 
But  is  it  reasonable  that,  being  so  private 
in  my  way  of  living,  I  should  recommend 
myself  to  the  public  knowledge?  And 
is  it  also  reasonable  that  I  should  produce 
for  the  benefit  of  the  world,  where  fashion 
and  art  have  such  credit  and  authority, 
the  raw  and  simple  effects  of  nature., 
and  of  a  nature  still  weak  enough?  To 
write  books  without  learning  and  without 
art,  is  it  not  making  a  wall  without  stone 
or  some  similar  thing?  The  fancies  of 
music  are  conducted  by  art;  mine  by 
chance.  Yet  I  have  this  according  to 
rule,  that  never  man  handled  subject 
better  known  and  understood  than  I  do 
this  I  have  undertaken,  and  that  in  this 
I  am  the  most  cunning  man  alive. 

Secondly,  no  man  ever  penetrated  moie 
deeply  into  his  matter,  nor  more  distinctly 


408 


ESSAYS 


409 


sifted  the  parts  and  sequences  of  it,  nor 
ever  more  exactly  and  fully  arrived  at  the 
end  he  proposed  to  himself.  To  perfect 
it,  I  have  need  of  nothing  but  faithfulness, 
which  is  for  this  work  as  pure  and  sincere 
as  may  be  found.  I  speak  truth,  not  so 
much  as  I  would,  but  as  much  as  I  dare; 
and  I  dare  the  more  the  more  I  grow  in 
years,  for  custom  seems  to  permit  old  age 
more  liberty  to  babble,  and  indiscretion  to 
talk  of  oneself.  It  cannot  happen  here 
as  I  often  see  it  elsewhere,  that  the  crafts- 
man and  his  work  contradict  one  another. 
Can  a  man  of  so  sober  and  honest  con- 
versation write  so  foolishly?  Are  such 
learned  writings  come  from  a  man  of  so 
weak  conversation?  He  who  talks  but 
ordinarily  well  and  writes  excellently 
may  be  said  to  have  borrowed  his  capacity, 
not  derived  it  from  himself.  A  skilful 
man  is  not  skilful  in  all  things;  but  a 
sufficient  man  is  sufficient  everywhere, 
even  in  his  own  ignorance.  Here  my 
book  and  I  march  together  and  keep  one 
pace.  With  respect  to  other  men's  writ- 
ing, men  may  commend  or  censure  the 
work  without  reference  to  the  workman, 
but  not  here;  who  touches  the  one  touches 
the  other.  He  who  shall  judge  of  it 
without  knowing  the  author  shall  wrong 
himself  more  than  me,  he  who  does  know 
it  gives  me  all  the  satisfaction  I  desire. 
Happy  beyond  my  deserts  if  I  obtain  only 
so  much  of  the  public  approval,  that  I  may 
cause  men  of  understanding  to  think  I  had 
been  able  to  profit  by  knowledge  if  I  had 
it;  and  that  I  deserved  to  be  assisted  by 
a  better  memory. 

Please  pardon  here  what  I  often  repeat, 
that  I  rarely  repent,  and  that  my  con- 
science is  contented  with  itself,  not  as  the 
conscience  of  an  angel,  or  that  of  a  horse, 
but  as  the  conscience  of  a  man.  Always 
adding  this  clause,  not  one  of  ceremony 
but  of  true  and  real  submission:  that  I 
speak  inquiringly  and  doubtingly,  purely 
and  simply  referring  myself,  from  reso- 
lution, unto  common  and  lawful  opin- 
ions. I  do  not  teach,  I  but  report. 

No  vice  is  absolutely  a  vice  which  does 
not  offend,  and  which  sound  judgment 
does  not  accuse:  for  there  is  in  it  so  mani- 


fest a  deformity  and  inconvenience  that 
perchance  they  are  in  the  right  who  say 
that  it  is  chiefly  begotten  by  stupidity 
and  brought  forth  by  ignorance,  so  hard 
is  it  to  imagine  that  one  should  know  it 
without  hating  it.  Malice  sucks  up  the 
greatest  part  of  her  own  renown  and  so 
poisons  herself.  Vice  leaves  remorse  in 
the  soul,  like  an  ulcer  in  the  flesh,  which 
is  always  scratching  and  tearing  itself; 
for  reason  effaces  all  other  griefs  and 
sorrows,  but  engenders  those  of  repen- 
tance, which  is  so  much  the  more  grievous, 
by  reason  that  it  springs  from  within,  as 
the  cold  and  heat  of  fevers  are  sharper 
than  those  that  only  strike  upon  the  outer 
skin.  I  account  vices  (but  each  according 
to  its  measure)  not  only  those  which 
reason  and  nature  condemn,  but  those 
also  which  the  opinion  of  men,  though 
false  and  erroneous,  has  made  such,  if 
they  are  confirmed  by  law  and  custom. 

In  like  manner,  there  is  no  virtue  which 
does  not  gladden  a  well-bred  nature. 
There  is  an  indescribable  self -congratula- 
tion in  well-doing  that  gives  us  an  inward 
satisfaction,  and  a  generous  boldness  that 
accompanies  a  good  conscience.  A  mind 
daringly  vicious  may  perhaps  furnish 
itself  with  security,  but  it  cannot  supply 
itself  with  this  delight  and  satisfaction. 
It  is  no  small  pleasure  to  feel  oneself  pre- 
served from  the  contagion  of  an  age  so 
infected  as  ours,  and  to  say  to  himself  : 
"Whoever  enters  and  sees  into  my  soul 
would  not  find  me  guilty  either  of  the 
affliction  or  ruin  of  anyone,  nor  of  envy 
or  revenge,  nor  of  public  offense  against 
the  laws,  nor  of  innovation  or  sedition, 
nor  failure  of  my  word;  and  though  the 
license  of  the  time  permits  and  teaches 
everyone  to  do  so,  yet  I  could  never  be 
induced  to  touch  the  goods  or  dive  into 
the  purse  of  any  Frenchman,  and  have 
always  lived  on  what  was  my  own,  in 
war  as  well  as  in  peace;  nor  did  I  ever 
make  use  of  any  poor  man's  labor  with- 
out paying  him  his  hire."  These  evi- 
dences of  a  good  conscience  are  very 
pleasing,  and  this  natural  rejoicing  is  a 
great  benefit  to  us,  and  the  only  reward 
which  never  fails. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


To  base  the  recompense  of  virtuous 
actions  upon  the  approbation  of  others  is 
too  uncertain  and  unsafe  a  foundation, 
especially  in  so  corrupt  and  ignorant  an 
age  as  this,  in  which  the  good  opinion  of 
the  vulgar  is  injurious.  Whom  do  you 
trust  to  show  you  what  is  commendable? 
God  keep  me  from  being  an  honest  man, 
according  to  the  description  I  daily  see 
made  of  honor,  each  one  from  himself 
as  model.  Quae  fuerant  vitia,  mores 
sunt:  "What  before  were  vices  are  now 
good  manners."  (Seneca,  Ep.  39.) 
Some  of  my  friends  have  at  times  schooled 
and  scolded  me  with  great  plainness, 
either  of  their  own  will  or  invited  by  me 
by  way  of  friendly  advice,  which  to  a  well- 
composed  mind  surpasses  both  in  profit 
and  hi  kindness  all  other  offices  of  friend- 
ship. Such  have  I  ever  entertained  with 
open  arms  both  of  courtesy  and  acknowl- 
edgment. But  now  to  speak  truly,  I 
have  often  found  so  much  false  measure 
both  in  their  reproaches  and  in  their 
praises,  that  I  would  not  have  been  farther 
wrong  to  have  done  ill  than  to  have  done 
well  according  to  their  notions.  Such  as 
we  are  especially,  who  live  a  private  life 
not  exposed  to  any  gaze  but  our  own, 
ought  in  our  hearts  to  establish  a  touch- 
stone, and  there  to  touch  our  deeds  and 
try  our  actions,  and  according  to  that 
sometimes  to  encourage  and  sometimes  to 
correct  ourselves.  I  have  my  own  laws 
and  my  own  tribunal  to  judge  me,  and  I 
address  myself  to  these  more  than  any- 
where else.  I  do  indeed  restrain  my  ac- 
tions with  respect  to  others,  but  I  extend 
them  according  to  my  own  rule  alone. 
None  but  yourself  knows  rightly  if  you 
are  cowardly  and  cruel,  or  loyal  and  de- 
vout. Others  do  not  see  you,  and  only 
guess  at  you  by  uncertain  conjectures, 
and  do  not  so  much  see  your  nature  as 
your  art.  Rely  not  then  upon  their 
opinion,  but  hold  to  your  own.  Tuo  tibi 
judicio  est  utendum.  Virtutis  et  vitiorum 
grave  ipsius  conscientiae  pondus  est;  qua 
sublata  jacent  omnia:  "You  must  use  your 
own  judgment.  The  weight  of  the  very 
conscience  of  vice  and  virtues  is  heavy: 
take  that  away  and  all  is  done." 


One  may  disown  and  retract  the  vices 
that  surprise  us,  and  to  which  we  are 
hurried  by  passions;  but  those  which  by 
long  habit  are  rooted  in  a  strong  and  vig- 
orous will  are  not  subject  to  contradic- 
tion. Repentance  is  but  a  denying  of  the 
will,  and  an  opposition  to  cur  fancies  which 
lead  us  which  way  they  please. 

Quae  mens  est  hodie,  cur  eadem  non  puero 

fuit? 
Vel  cur  his  animis  incolumes  non  redeunt 

genae? 

"Why  was  not  in  a  youth  same  mind  as 

now? 
Or  why  bears  not  this  mind  a  youthful 

brow?  "        (Horace,  Od.  IV,  10,7.) 

That  is  an  exquisite  life  which  keeps 
due  order  even  in  private.  Everyone 
may  play  the  juggler,  and  represent  an 
honest  man  upon  the  stage;  but  within, 
and  in  his  own  bosom,  where  all  things 
are  lawful  and  where  all  things  are  con- 
cealed, to  keep  a  due  rule  or  formal  de- 
corum, that's  the  point.  The  next  degree 
is  to  be  so  in  his  own  home,  and  in  his 
ordinary  actions,  whereof  we  give  ac- 
count to  nobody,  wherein  is  no  study  and 
no  art.  And  therefore  Bias,  setting  forth 
the  excellent  state  of  a  private  family, 
says:  of  which  the  master  is  the  same 
within  as  he  is  outwardly,  for  fear  of  the 
laws  and  regard  for  what  men  will  say !  * 
And  it  was  a  worthy  saying  of  Julius 
Drusus  to  those  workmen  who  for  three 
thousand  crowns  offered  so  to  reform  his 
house  that  his  neighbors  should  no  longer 
look  into  it:  "I  will  give  you  six  thou- 
sand to  make  it  so  that  everyone  may  see 
into  every  room."  The  custom  of  Agesi- 
laus  is  remembered  with  honor,  who  in 
his  travels  was  wont  to  take  up  his  lodg- 
ing in  churches,  that  the  people  and  the 
gods  themselves  might  pry  into  his  pri- 
vate actions.  Some  man  may  have  been 
a  miracle  to  the  world,  in  whom  neither 
his  wife  nor  his  servants  ever  noted  any- 
thing remarkable.  "No  man  is  a  hero 
to  his  valet.  No  man  has  been  a  prophet, 
not  merely  in  his  own  house  but  in  his 

•Plutarch,  "Banquet  of  the  Seven  Sages." 


ESSAYS 


411 


own  country,"  is  the  experience  of  his- 
tories. So  also  is  it  in  things  of  little 
account,  for  in  the  low  example  the  image 
of  a  greater  is  seen. 

People  escort  a  public  man  to  his  very 
doors  in  state;  with  his  robe  he  puts  off  his 
part,  falling  so  much  the  lower  by  how 
much  higher  he  had  mounted.  Within  him- 
self all  is  turbulent  and  base.  And  though 
order  and  formality  should  be  discovered 
there,  a  lively  and  impartial  judgment  is 
required  to  perceive  it  in  these  low  and 
private  actions;  considering  that  order  is 
but  a  dull,  sombre  virtue.  To  win  a 
battle,  conduct  an  embassy,  govern  a 
people,  are  noble  and  worthy  actions;  to 
reprove,  laugh,  pay,  hate,  and  gently  and 
justly  converse  with  one's  own  family 
and  with  one's  self;  not  to  relent,  not  to 
give  oneself  the  lie,  are  things  more  rare, 
more  difficult,  and  less  remarkable. 

Wherefore  retired  lives,  whatever  may 
be  said,  undergo  duties  of  as  great  or 
greater  difficulty  than  others  do;  and  pri- 
vate men,  says  Aristotle,  serve  virtue 
more  painfully  and  more  highly  attend 
her  than  do  those  in  authority.  We  pre- 
pare ourselves  for  eminent  occasions 
more  for  glory  than  for  conscience.  The 
shortest  way  to  arrive  at  glory  would  be 
to  do  that  for  conscience  which  we  do  for 
glory.  And  it  appears  that  the  virtue  of 
Alexander  was  less  vigorous  in  his  great 
theater  than  that  of  Socrates  hi  his  mean 
and  obscure  employment.  I  can  easily 
conceive  Socrates  in  the  place  of  Alex- 
ander, but  Alexander  in  the  place  of  Soc- 
rates I  cannot.  If  any  ask  the  one  what 
he  can  do,  he  will  answer,  "  Conquer  the 
world;"  let  the  same  question  be  put  to 
the  other,  he  will  say,  "Conduct  my  life 
conformably  to  its  natural  condition;" 
a  science  much  more  generous,  more  im- 
portant, and  more  lawful. 

The  virtue  of  the  soul  consists  not  in 
flying  high,  but  in  marching  orderly;  its 
grandeur  does  not  exercise  itself  in  gran- 
deur, but  in  things  of  low  estate.  As 
they  who  judge  and  try  us  inwardly 
take  no  great  account  of  the  luster  of 
our  public  actions,  and  see  they  are  but 
streaks  and  rays  of  clear  water  surging 


from  a  slimy  and  muddy  bottom;  so 
those  who  judge  us  by  this  gay  outward 
appearance  conclude  the  same  of  our 
inward  constitution,  and  cannot  couple 
common  faculties  like  their  own  to  other 
faculties  which  astonish  them,  so  far  are 
they  above  their  level. 

There  is  no  man  (if  he  listen  to  himself) 
who  does  not  discover  in  himself  a  pe- 
culiar and  governing  form  of  his  own,  a 
swaying  form  which  wrestles  against  the 
tempest  of  passions  that  are  contrary 
to  it.  For  my  part,  I  am  seldom  agitated 
by  a  shock;  I  usually  find  myself  in  my 
place,  as  sluggish  and  unwieldy  bodies  do; 
if  I  am  not  near  at  hand,  I  am  never  far 
off;  my  dissipations  do  not  carry  me t far, 
and  there  is  nothing  about  me  strange 
or  extreme;  yet  I  have  strong  appetites. 

The  true  condemnation,  and  one  that 
touches  the  common  practice  of  men,  is 
that  their  very  retreat  is  full  of  filth  and 
corruption;  the  idea  of  their  amendment 
blurred;  their  repentance  sick  and  faulty, 
nearly  as  much  as  their  sin.  Some, 
either  from  having  been  linked  to  vice 
by  a  natural  propensity,  or  long  practice, 
have  lost  all  sense  of  its  ugliness,  others 
(of  which  rank  am  I)  find  vice  burdensome, 
but  they  counterbalance  it  with  pleasure 
on  some  other  occasion  and  suffer  or  lend 
themselves  to  it  for.  a  certain  price,  but 
basely  and  viciously.  Yet  there  might, 
perhaps,  be  so  much  more  of  one  than  the 
other  that  with  justice  the  pleasure  might 
counterbalance  the  sin  as  we  say  of  profit 
and  loss,  not  only  if  accidental,  and  arising 
out  of  sin,  as  in  thefts,  but  in  the  very 
exercise  of  it,  where  the  temptation  is 
violent,  and,  it  is  said,  sometimes  not  to 
be  overcome. 

There  are  some  sins  that  are  impet- 
uous, prompt,  and  sudden;  let  us  leave  con- 
sideration of  them.  But  those  other  sins 
so  often  repeated,  determined,  and  care- 
fully considered,  whether  sins  of  tempera- 
ment or  sins  of  profession  and  vocation, 
I  cannot  conceive  how  they  should  be  so 
long  settled  in  the  same  resolution, 
unless  the  reason  and  conscience  of  him 
who  has  them  be  inwardly  and  constantly 
willing.  And  the  repentance  he  boasts 


412 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


to  be  inspired  with  all  of  a  sudden,  is 
hard  for  me  to  imagine  or  conceive.  I 
am  not  of  Pythagoras'  sect,  holding  that 
men  receive  a  new  soul  when  they  repair 
to  the  images  of  the  gods  to  receive  oracles, 
unless  it  is  meant  that  they  take  a  strange 
and  new  one,  lent  them  for  the  occasion; 
our  own  showing  so  little  sign  of  purifi- 
cation and  cleanness,  worthy  of  that 
office.  They  again  act  quite  contrary 
to  the  principles  of  the  Stoics  which  com- 
mand us  to  correct  the  imperfections  and 
vices  we  find  in  ourselves,  but  forbid  us 
therefore  to  disturb  the  repose  of  our 
souls.  They  make  us  believe  they  feel 
great  remorse,  and  are  inwardly  much  dis- 
pleased with  sin;  but  of  amendment, 
correction,  or  ceasing  to  sin,  they  show  no 
sign.  Surely  there  can  be  no  perfect 
health  where  the  disease  is  not  perfectly 
removed.  Were  repentance  put  into  the 
balance,  it  would  weigh  down  sin.  I 
find  no  quality  so  easy  to  counterfeit 
as  devotion;  if  one  does  not  conform  his 
life  to  it,  its  essence  is  not  easily  dis- 
covered but  is  concealed,  and  its  appear- 
ance easy  and  ostentatious. 

For  my  part,  I  may  in  general  wish  to 
be  other  than  I  am;  I  may  condemn  and 
dislike  my  whole  form;  I  may  pray  God 
to  grant  me  an  undefiled  reformation 
and  pardon  my  natural  weakness,  but  I 
ought  not  to  call  this  repentance  any 
more  than  in  being  dissatisfied  with  being 
neither  an  angel  nor  Cato.  My  actions 
are  squared  to  what  I  am,  and  confirmed 
by  my  condition.  I  cannot  do  better; 
and  repentance  does  not  properly  concern 
what  is  not  in  our  power;  sorrow  does.  I 
may  imagine  an  infinite  number  of  nat- 
ures more  elevated  than  mine,  yet  I  do 
not  for  that  improve  my  faculties,  any 
more  than  my  arm  grows  stronger  or  my 
mind  more  vigorous  by  conceiving  those 
of  another  to  be  so.  If  to  suppose  and 
wish  a  nobler  way  of  acting  than  ours 
might  produce  a  repentance  of  our  own, 
we  should  then  repent  of  our  most  inno- 
cent actions;  for  since  we  judge  that  in  a 
more  excellent  nature  they  had  been 
directed  with  greater  perfection  and  dig- 
nity, we  would  that  ours  were  so.  When 


in  old  age  I  reflect  upon  the  behavior 
of  my  youth,  I  find  that  commonly 
(according  to  my  own  opinion)  I  managed 
with  equal  order  in  both.  This  is  all 
that  my  resistance  is  able  to  accomplish. 
I  do  not  flatter  myself;  in  like  circum- 
stances I  should  always  be  the  same.  It 
is  not  a  spot,  but  a  whole  dye,  that  stains 
me.  I  acknowledge  no  repentance  that 
is  superficial,  mean,  and  ceremonious. 
It  must  touch  me  on  all  sides  before  I 
can  term  it  repentance.  It  must  pinch 
my  entrails  and  afflict  them  as  deeply 
and  thoroughly  as  God  himself  beholds 
me. 

If  I  fail  in  business  and  success  favor 
the  side  I  refused,  there  is  no  remedy: 
I  do  not  blame  myself,  I  accuse  my 
fortune,  and  not  my  work;  this  cannot 
be  called  repentance.  So,  too,  I  abomi- 
nate that  accidental  repentance  which  old 
age  brings  with  it.  He  who  in  ancient 
times  said  he  was  beholden  to  years 
because  they  had  rid  him  of  voluptuous- 
ness, was  not  of  my  opinion.  I  shall 
never  thank  impotency  for  any  good 
it  may  do  me:  Nee  tarn  aversa  unquam 
videbitur  ab  opere  suo  providentia,  ui 
debilitas  inter  optima  inventa  sit:  "Nor 
can  Providence  ever  be  seen  so  averse 
to  her  own  work  that  debility  should 
be  ranked  among  the  best  things." 
(Quintilian.)  Our  appetites  are  rare  in 
old  age;  a  profound  satiety  seizes  us  after 
the  deed  has  been  committed;  in  this  I  see 
no  conscience.  Fretting  care  and  weak- 
ness imprint  in  us  an  effeminate  and 
drowsy  virtue. 

We  must  not  allow  ourselves  so  fully 
to  be  carried  away  by  changes  of  nature 
as  to  corrupt  or  adulterate  our  judgment 
by  them.  Youth  and  pleasure  have  not 
hitherto  prevailed  so  much  over  me,  but 
I  could  always,  even  in  my  pleasures,  dis- 
cern the  ugly  face  of  sin;  nor  can  the 
distaste  which  years  bring  on  me  prevent 
me  from  seeing  sensuality  where  there  is 
vice.  Now  that  I  am  no  longer  a  part 
of  it,  I  judge  as  well  of  these  things  as  if 
I  were.  I  who  lively  and  attentively  ex- 
amine my  reason,  find  it  to  be  the  same 
that  possessed  me  in  my  most  dissolute 


ESSAYS 


and  licentious  age;  unless,  perhaps,  that 
it  is  weaker  and  enfeebled  through  the 
passage  of  years;  and  I  find  that  the 
pleasure  it  refuses  me  on  account  of  my 
bodily  health  it  would  not  at  all  deny  me 
in  time  of  youth  for  the  sake  of  the  health 
of  my  soul.  I  do  not  consider  it  more 
valiant  for  not  being  able  to  combat.  My 
temptations  are  so  broken  and  mortified 
that  they  are  not  worth  its  opposition; 
holding  but  my  hand  before  me,  I  repel 
them.  Should  any  one  but  present  the 
old  desires  before  it,  I  fear  it  would  have 
less  power  of  resistance  than  before.  I 
see  in  it  by  itself  no  increase  of  judgment 
nor  access  of  brightness;  what  it  now 
condemns  it  did  then.  Wherefore,  if 
there  is  any  amendment,  it  is  but  dis- 
eased. Oh  miserable  kind  of  remedy  to 
owe  one's  health  to  one's  disease!  It  is 
not  through  ill  fortune  but  through  good 
fortune  that  our  judgment  aids  us  to  live 
rightly.  Crosses  and  afflictions  make  me 
do  nothing  but  curse  them.  They  are  for 
people  who  cannot  be  awakened  but  by 
the  whip ;  my  reason  is  freer  in  prosperity, 
and  much  more  distracted  and  tormented 
to  digest  pains  than  pleasures,  and  I  see 
much  clearer  in  fair  weather.  Health 
admonishes  me  more  cheerfully,  and  to 
better  purpose,  than  sickness.  I  did  all 
that  lay  in  me  to  reform  and  regulate 
myself  in  my  pleasures,  at  a  time  when  I 
had  health  and  vigor  to  enjoy  them; 
I  should  be  vexed  and  ashamed  that  the 
misery  and  misfortune  of  my  old  age 
could  exceed  the  health,  attention,  and 
vigor  of  my  youth;  and  that  I  should  be 
esteemed,  not  for  what  I  have  been,  but 
for  what  I  have  ceased  to  be. 

In  my  opinion,  it  is  the  happy  living, 
not  the  happy  dying,  that  makes  man's 
happiness  in  this  world.  I  have  not  pre- 
posterously busied  myself  to  tie  the  tail 
of  a  philosopher  to  the  head  and  body  of 
a  rake;  nor  would  I  have  the  paltry  re- 
mainder of  life  disavow  and  belie  the 
fairest,  soundest,  and  longest  part  of  my 
life;  I  would  present  myself  uniformly 
throughout.  Were  I  to  live  again  it 
should  be  as  I  have  already  lived.  I 
neither  deplore  what  is  past  nor  dread 


what  is  to  come;  and  if  I  am  not  deceived, 
I  am  the  same  within  that  I  am  without. 
It  is  one  of  my  chief  obligations  to  for- 
tune, that  the  course  of  my  bodily  growth 
has  been  carried  on  according  to  the 
seasons.  I  have  seen  the  leaves,  the 
blossoms,  and  the  fruit;  and  now  see  the 
withering;  happily  because  naturally.  I 
bear  my  present  infirmities  the  more 
gently  because  they  are  in  season,  and 
because  they  make  me  with  greater 
pleasure  remember  the  long  happiness 
of  my  former  life.  In  like  manner  my 
wisdom  may  have  been  just  the  same  in 
both  ages,  but  it  was  more  active  and  of 
better  grace  while  fresh,  jolly,  and  full 
of  spirit  than  now  that  it  is  worn,  decrepit, 
and  peevish. 

I  therefore  renounce  these  casual  and 
dolorous  reformations.  God  must  touch 
our  hearts;  our  consciences  must  amend 
of  themselves,  by  the  aid  of  our  reason, 
and  not  by  the  decay  of  our  appetites. 
Voluptuousness  in  itself  is  neither  pale 
nor  discolored  to  be  discerned  by  dim 
and  troubled  eyes. 

We  ought  to  love  temperance  and  chast- 
ity for  themselves,  and  for  God's  com- 
mand, who  hath  ordained  them  unto  us. 
But  that  which  we  are  reduced  to  by 
catarrhs,  and  for  which  I  am  indebted 
to  dyspepsia,  is  neither  temperance  nor 
chastity.  A  man  cannot  boast  that  he 
despises  and  resists  pleasure  if  he  cannot 
see  it,  if  he  knows  not  what  it  is,  and  can- 
not perceive  its  graces,  its  force,  and  its 
most  alluring  beauties;  I  know  both  the 
one  and  the  other,  and  can  the  better  say  it. 
But,  I  think,  our  souls,  in  old  age,  are 
subject  to  more  troublesome  maladies 
and  imperfections  than  in  youth.  I 
said  so  when  young,  when  my  beardless 
chin  reproached  me;  and  I  say  it  again 
now  when  my  gray  beard  gives  me  au- 
thority. We  call  the  petulance  of  our 
tempers  and  the  disrelish  of  present  things 
wisdom;  but,  in  truth,  we  do  not  abandon 
vices  so  much  as  change  them,  and  in  my 
opinion  for  the  worse.  Besides  a  silly 
and  ruinous  pride,  impertinent  gossip- 
ing, wayward  and  unsociable  fitsof  temper, 
superstition,  and  a  ridiculous  desire  of 


414 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


riches,  when  the  use  of  them  is  well-nigh 
lost,  I  find  there  (in  cM  age)  more  envy, 
injustice,  and  malice.  It  sets  more  wrink- 
les in  our  minds  than  in  our  foreheads; 
and  souls  are  never,  or  rarely,  seen,  which 
in  growing  old  do  not  taste  sour  and  musty. 
Man  moves  altogether  toward  his  per- 
fection and  his  decrease.  Consider  but 
the  wisdom  of  Socrates  and  some  of  the 
circumstances  of  his  condemnation.  I 
daresay  he  in  some  sort  purposely  con- 
tributed to  it,  seeing  that,  at  the  age  of 
seventy  years,  he  might  fear  to  suffer 
the  benumbing  of  his  spirit's  richest  pace, 
and  the  dimming  of  his  accustomed 


brightness.  What  strange  metamor- 
phoses have  I  seen  every  day  make  in 
many  of  my  acquaintance?  It  is  a  potent 
malady  which  naturally  and  impercep- 
tibly steals  into  us;  there  is  required  a 
great  provision  of  study  and  precaution 
to  evade  the  imperfections  it  loads  upon 
us;  or  at  least  to  weaken  their  further 
progress.  I  find  that  notwithstanding 
all  my  intrenchments,  by  little  and  little 
it  gains  on  me;  I  hold  out  as  long  as  I 
can,  but  I  do  not  know  to  what  at  last  it 
will  reduce  me.  Happen  what  happen 
will,  I  am  content  the  world  should  know 
from  what  height  I  tumbled. 


FRANCIS  BACON    (1561-1626) 

Bacon,  who  himself  possessed  one  of  the  finest  intellects  in  history,  at  last  set  free  the  minds  of  men 
from  the  thralldom  of  mediaeval  philosophy  and  was  perhaps  the  chief  instrument  in  inaugurating  mod- 
ern scientific  experiment.  The  "Essays"  were  composed  by  a  man  of  great  affairs  who  had  observed  and 
reflected  profoundly  and  who  embodied  these  reflections  in  his  notebook. 


I. — OF  TRUTH 

"WHAT  is  truth?"  said  jesting  Pilate; 
and  would  not  stay  for  an  answer.  Cer- 
tainly there  be  that  delight  in  giddiness, 
and  count  it  a  bondage  to  fix  a  belief, 
affecting  free-will  in  thinking,  as  well  as 
in  acting.  And  though  the  sects  of  phi- 
losophers of  that  kind  be  gone,  yet  there 
remain  certain  discoursing  wits  which 
are  of  the  same  veins,  though  there  be  not 
so  much  blood  in  them  as  was  in  those  of 
the  ancients.  But  it  is  not  only  the  dif- 
ficulty and  labor  which  men  take  in  find- 
ing out  of  truth;  nor  again,  that  when  it  is 
found,  it  imposeth  upon  men's  thoughts, 
that  doth  bring  lies  in  favor:  but  a  natural 
though  corrupt  love  of  the  lie  itself.  One 
of  the  later  school  of  the  Grecians  exam- 
ineth  the  matter,  and  is  at  a  stand  to 
think  what  should  be  in  it,  that  men 
should  love  lies:  where  neither  they  make 
for  pleasure,  as  with  poets;  nor  for  ad- 
vantage, as  with  the  merchant;  but  for 
the  lie's  sake.  But  I  cannot  tell:  this 
same  truth  is  a  naked  and  open  daylight, 
that  doth  not  show  the  masques,  and 
mummeries,  and  triumphs  of  the  world 
half  so  stately  and  daintily  as  candle- 


lights. Truth  may  perhaps  come  to  the 
price  of  a  pearl,  that  showeth  best  by 
day;  but  it  will  not  rise  to  the  price  of  a 
diamond  or  carbuncle,  that  showeth  best 
in  varied  lights.  A  mixture  of  a  lie  doth 
ever  add  pleasure.  Doth  any  man  doubt 
that  if  there  were  taken  out  of  men's 
minds  vain  opinions,  flattering  hopes, 
false  valuations,  imaginations  as  one 
would,  and  the  like,  but  it  would  leave  the 
minds  of  a  number  of  men  poor  shrunken 
things,  full  of  melancholy  and  indisposi- 
tion, and  unpleasing  to  themselves?  One 
of  the  fathers,  in  great  severity,  called 
poesy  vinum  daemonum  [devils'  wine], 
because  it  filleth  the  imagination,  and  yet 
it  is  but  with  the  shadow  of  a  lie.  But  it 
is  not  the  lie  that  passeth  through  the 
mind,  but  the  lie  that  sinketh  in  and  set- 
tleth  in  it  that  doth  the  hurt,  such  as  we 
spake  of  before.  But  howsoever  these 
things  are  thus  in  men's  depraved  judg- 
ments and  affections,  yet  truth,  which 
only  doth  judge  itself,  teacheth  that  the 
inquiry  of  truth,  which  is  the  love-making, 
or  wooing  of  it;  the  knowledge  of  truth, 
which  is  the  presence  of  it;  and  the  belief 
of  truth,  which  is  the  enjoying  of  it,  is  the 
sovereign  good  of  human  nature.  The 


ESSAYS 


first  creature  of  God,  in  the  works  of  the 
days,  was  the  light  of  the  sense;  the  last 
was  the  light  of  reason;  and  his  Sabbath 
work,  ever  since,  is  the  illumination  of  his 
spirit.  First  he  breathed  light  upon  the 
face  of  the  matter,  or  chaos;  then  he 
breathed  light  into  the  face  of  man;  and 
still  he  breatheth  and  inspireth  light  into 
the  face  of  his  chosen.  The  poet,  that 
beautified  the  sect,  that  was  otherwise 
inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently 
well,  "It  is  a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the 
shore,  and  to  see  ships  tost  upon  the  sea; 
a  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  window  of  a 
castle,  and  to  see  a  battle,  and  the  ad- 
ventures thereof  below;  but  no  pleasure 
is  comparable  to  the  standing  upon  the 
vantage  ground  of  truth  (a  hill  not  to  be 
commanded,  and  where  the  air  is  always 
clear  and  serene),  and  to  see  the  errors, 
and  wanderings,  and  mists,  and  tempests, 
in  the  vale  below;"  so  always  that  this 
prospect  be  with  pity,  and  not  with 
swelling  or  pride.  Certainly  it  is  heaven 
upon  earth  to  have  a  man's  mind  move 
in  charity,  rest  in  providence,  and  turn 
upon  the  poles  of  truth. 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philo- 
sophical truth  to  the  truth  of  civil  busi- 
ness, it  will  be  acknowledged,  even  by 
those  that  practice  it  not,  that  clear  and 
round  dealing  is  the  honor  of  man's 
nature,  and  that  mixture  of  falsehood  is 
like  alloy  in  coin  of  gold  and  silver, 
which  may  make  the  metal  work  the 
better,  but  it  embaseth  it;  for  these  wind- 
ing and  crooked  courses  are  the  goings 
of  the  serpent,  which  goeth  basely  upon 
the  belly,  and  not  upon  the  feet.  There 
is  no  vice  that  doth  so  cover  a  man  with 
shame  as  to  be  found  false  and  per- 
fidious; and  therefore  Montaigne  saith 
prettily,  when  he  inquired  the  reason 
why  the  word  of  the  h'e  should  be  such 
a  disgrace,  and  such  an  odious  charge, 
"If  it  be  well  weighed,  to  say  that  a  man 
lieth,  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  is 
brave  towards  God,  and  a  coward  to- 
wards man."  For  a  lie  faces  God,  and 
shrinks  from  man.  Surely  the  wicked- 
ness of  falsehood  and  breach  of  faith 
cannot  possibly  be  so  highly  expressed  as 


in  that  it  shall  be  the  last  peal  to  call  the 
judgments  of  God  upon  the  generations 
of  men:  it  being  foretold,  that  when  Christ 
cometh,  "he  shall  not  find  faith  upon  the 
earth." 

V. — OF  ADVERSITY 

IT  WAS  a  high  speech  of  Seneca,  after 
the  manner  of  the  Stoics,  that  "the  good 
things  which  belong  to  prosperity  are  to 
be  wished,  but  the  good  things  that  be- 
long to  adversity  are  to  be  admired." 
Bona  rerum  secundarum  optabilia,  ad- 
versarum  mirabilia.  Certainly  if  mira- 
cles be  the  command  over  Nature,  they 
appear  most  in  adversity.  It  is  yet  a 
higher  speech  of  his  than  the  other, 
much  too  high  for  a  heathen,  "It  is  true 
greatness  to  have  in  one  the  frailty  of 
a  man  and  the  security  of  a  God"  (Vere 
magnum,  habere  Jragilitatem  hominis,  se- 
curitatem  Dei).  This  would  have  done 
better  in  poesy,  where  transcendencies 
are  more  allowed.  And  the  poets,  in- 
deed, have  been  busy  with  it;  for  it  is  in 
effect  the  thing  which  is  figured  in  that 
strange  fiction  of  the  ancient  poets  which 
seemeth  not  to  be  without  mystery;  nay, 
and  to  have  some  approach  to  the  state 
of  a  Christian:  that  Hercules,  when  he 
went  to  unbind  Prometheus,  by  whom 
human  nature  is  represented,  sailed  the 
length  of  the  great  ocean  in  an  earthen 
pot  or  pitcher;  lively  describing  Chris- 
tian resolution  that  saileth  in  the  frail 
bark  of  the  flesh  through  the  waves  of 
the  world.  But  to  speak  in  a  mean,  the 
virtue  of  prosperity  is  temperance,  the 
virtue  of  adversity  is  fortitude,  which  in 
morals  is  the  more  heroical  virtue.  Pros- 
perity is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, adversity  is  the  blessing  of  the  New, 
which  carrieth  the  greater  benediction  and 
the  clearer  revelation  of  God's  favor. 
Yet,  even  in  the  Old  Testament,  if  you 
listen  to  David's  harp  you  shall  hear  as 
many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols.  And  the 
pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  labored 
more  in  describing  the  afflictions  of  Job 
than  the  felicities  of  Solomon.  Pros- 
perity is  not  without  many  fears  and  dis- 


4z6 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


tastes,  and  adversity  is  not  without  com- 
forts and  hopes.  We  see  in  needleworks 
and  embroideries  it  is  "more  pleasing  to 
have  a  lively  work  upon  a  sad  and  solemn 
ground  than  to  have  a  dark  and  melan- 
choly work  upon  a  lightsome  ground. 
Judge,  therefore,  of  the  pleasure  of  the 
heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Cer- 
tainly virtue  is  like  precious  odors,  most 
fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or  crushed; 
for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice, 
but  adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue. 

XXXIV.— OF  RICHES 

I  CANNOT  call  riches  better  than  the 
baggage  of  virtue.  The  Roman  word  is 
better,  impedimenta,  for  as  the  baggage 
is  to  an  army  so  is  riches  to  virtue.  It 
cannot  be  spared,  nor  left  behind,  but  it 
hindereth  the  march,  yea,  and  the  care 
of  it  sometimes  loseth  or  disturbeth  the 
victory.  Of  great  riches  there  is  no  real 
use,  except  it  be  in  the  distribution;  the 
rest  is  but  conceit.  So  saith  Solomon, 
"Where  much  is,  there  are  many  to  con- 
sume it;  and  what  hath  the  owner  but 
the  sight  of  it  with  his  eyes?"  The 
personal  fruition  in  any  man  cannot 
reach  to  feel  great  riches;  there  is  a  cus- 
tody of  them,  or  a  power  of  dole  and 
donative  of  them,  or  a  fame  of  them,  but 
no  solid  use  to  the  owner.  Do  you  not 
see  what  feigned  prices  are  set  upon 
little  stones  and  rarities?  And  what 
works  of  ostentation  are  undertaken,  be- 
cause there  might  seem  to  be  some  use 
of  great  riches?  But  then  you  will  say, 
they  may  be  of  use,  to  buy  men  out  of 
dangers  or  troubles.  As  Solomon  saith, 
"Riches  are  as  a  stronghold  in  the  im- 
agination of  the  rich  man."  But  this  is 
excellently  expressed,  that  it  is  in  im- 
agination, and  not  always  in  fact.  For 
certainly  great  riches  have  sold  more 
men  than  they  have  bought  out.  Seek 
not  proud  riches,  but  such  as  thou  mayest 
get  justly,  use  soberly,  distribute  cheer- 
fully, and  leave  contentedly.  Yet  have  no 
abstract  or  friarly  contempt  of  them,  but 
distinguish,  as  Cicero  saith  well  of  Rab- 
irius  Posthumus,  In  studio  rei  amplifican- 


dae,  apparebat,  non  avaritiae  praedam, 
sed  instrumentum  bonitati  quaeri.  [In  his 
efforts  to  increase  his  wealth,  it  was  clear 
that  he  did  not  seek  a  prey  for  avarice 
but  an  instrument  for  doing  good.] 
Hearken  also  to  Solomon,  and  beware  of 
hasty  gathering  of  riches:  Qui  festinat  ad 
divitias,  non  erit  insons.  [He  that  maketh 
haste  to  be  rich  shall  not  be  innocent.] 
The  poets  feign  that  when  Plutus  (which 
is  riches)  is  sent  from  Jupiter,  he  limps,  and 
goes  slowly,  but  when  he  is  sent  from 
Pluto,  he  runs,  and  is  swift  of  foot;  mean- 
ing that  riches  gotten  by  good  means  and 
just  labor  pace  slowly,  but  when  they 
come  by  the  death  of  others  (as  by  the 
course  of  inheritance,  testaments,  and  the 
like),  they  come  tumbling  upon  a  man: 
but  it  might  be  applied  likewise  to  Pluto 
taking  him  for  the  devil;  for  when  riches 
come  from  the  devil  (as  by  fraud,  and 
oppression,  and  unjust  means)  they  come 
upon  speed.  The  ways  to  enrich  are 
many,  and  most  of  them  foul;  parsimony 
is  one  of  the  best,  and  yet  is  not  innocent, 
for  it  withholdeth  men  from  works  of  lib- 
erality and  charity.  The  improvement 
of  the  ground  is  the  most  natural  obtain- 
ing of  riches,  for  it  is  our  great  mother's 
blessing,  the  earth's;  but  it  is  slow:  and 
yet,  where  men  of  great  wealth  do  stoop 
to  husbandry,  it  multiplieth  riches  ex- 
ceedingly. I  knew  a  nobleman  in  Eng- 
land that  had  the  greatest  audits  of  any 
man  in  my  time, — a  great  grazier,  a 
great  sheep  master,  a  great  timber  man, 
a  great  collier,  a  great  corn  master,  a 
great  lead  man,  and  so  of  iron  and  a 
number  of  the  like  points  of  husbandry; 
so  as  the  earth  seemed  a  sea  to  him  in 
respect  of  the  perpetual  importation. 
It  was  truly  observed  by  one,  "That  him- 
self came  very  hardly  to  a  little  riches, 
and  very  easily  to  great  riches;"  for 
when  a  man's  stock  is  come  to  that,  that 
he  can  expect  the  prime  of  markets,  and 
overcome  those  bargains,  which  for  their 
greatness  are  few  men's  money,  and  be 
partner  in  the  industries  of  younger  men, 
he  cannot  but  increase  mainly.  The 
gains  of  ordinary  trades  and  vocations 
are  honest,  and  furthered  by  two  things 


ESSAYS 


chiefly:  by  diligence,  and  by  a  good  name 
for  good  and  fair  dealing;  but  the  gains 
of  bargains  are  of  a  more  doubtful  nature, 
when  men  shall  wait  upon  others'  neces- 
sity; broke  by  servants,  and  instruments 
to  draw  them  on ;  put  off  others  cunningly 
that  would  be  better  chapmen,  and  the 
like  practices,  which  are  crafty  and 
naught.  As  for  the  chopping  of  bargains, 
when  a  man  buys  not  to  hold,  but  to  sell 
over  again,  that  commonly  grindeth 
double,  both  upon  the  seller  and  upon  the 
buyer.  Sharings  do  greatly  enrich,  if 
the  hands  be  well  chosen  that  are  trusted. 
Usury  is  the  certainest  means  of  gain, 
though  one  of  the  worst,  as  that  whereby 
a  man  doth  eat  his  bread  in  su&ori  vultus 
alieni  [in  the  sweat  of  another  man's 
brow];  and  besides,  doth  plough  upon 
Sundays.  But  yet  certain  though  it  be, 
it  hath  flaws,  for  that  the  scriveners  and 
brokers  do  value  unsound  men,  to  serve 
their  own  turn.  The  fortune  in  being 
the  first  in  an  invention,  or  in  a  privilege, 
doth  cause  sometimes  a  wonderful  over- 
growth in  riches,  as  it  was  with  the  first 
sugar-man  in  the  Canaries.  Therefore, 
if  a  man  can  play  the  true  logician,  to  have 
as  well  judgment  as  invention,  he  may  do 
great  matters,  especially  if  the  times  be 
fit.  He  that  resteth  upon  gains  certain 
shall  hardly  grow  to  great  riches.  And 
he  that  puts  all  upon  adventures,  doth 
oftentimes  break,  and  come  to  poverty: 
it  is  good  therefore  to  guard  adventures 
with  certainties  that  may  uphold  losses. 
Monopolies,  and  co-emption  of  wares  for 
resale,  where  they  are  not  restrained,  are 
great  means  to  enrich,  especially  if  the 
party  have  intelligence  what  things  are 
like  to  come  into  request,  and  so  store 
himself  beforehand.  Riches  gotten  by 
service,  though  it  be  of  the  best  rise,  yet 
when  they  are  gotten  by  flattery,  feeding 
humors,  and  other  servile  conditions,  they 
may  be  placed  amongst  the  worst.  As 
for  fishing  for  testaments  and  executor- 
ships,  as  Tacitus  saith  of  Seneca,  Testa- 
menta  et  orbos  tanquam  indagine  capi  [he 
took  in  bequests  and  wardships  as  with  a 
net];  it  is  yet  worse,  by  how  much  men 
submit  themselves  to  meaner  persons  than 


in  service.  Believe  not  much  them  that 
seem  to  despise  riches,  for  they  despise 
them  that  despair  of  them,  and  none 
worse  when  they  come  to  them.  Be  not 
penny- wise;  riches  have  wings,  and  some- 
times they  fly  away  of  themselves,  some- 
times they  must  be  set  flying  to  bring  in 
more.  Men  leave  their  riches  either  to 
their  kindred,  or  to  the  public;  and  mod- 
erate portions  prosper  best  in  both.  A 
great  estate  left  to  an  heir  is  as  a  lure  to  all 
the  birds  of  prey  round  about  to  seize  on 
him,  if  he  be  not  the  better  stablished  in 
years  and  judgments.  Likewise  glorious 
gifts  and  foundations  are  like  sacrifices 
without  salt,  and  but  the  painted  sepul- 
chers  of  alms,  which  soon  will  putrefy 
and  corrupt  inwardly.  Therefore  measure 
not  thine  advancements  by  quantity, 
but  frame  them  by  measure:  and  defer 
not  charities  till  death;  for,  certainly,  if  a 
man  weigh  it  rightly,  he  that  doth  so  is 
rather  liberal  of  another  man's  than  of  his 
own. 


XLII. — OF  YOUTH  AND  AGE 

A  MAN  that  is  young  in  years  may  be 
old  in  hours  if  he  have  lost  no  time. 
But  that  happeneth  rarely.  Generally 
youth  is  like  the  first  cogitations,  not  so 
wise  as  the  second.  For  there  is  youth 
in  thoughts  as  well  as  hi  ages.  And  yet 
the  invention  of  young  men  is  more  lively 
than  that  of  old;  and  imaginations  stream 
into  their  minds,  better  and,  as  it  were, 
more  divinely.  Natures  that  have  much 
heat,  and  great  and  violent  desires  and 
perturbations,  are  not  ripe  for  action  till 
they  have  passed  the  meridian  of  their 
years,  as  it  was  with  Julius  Caesar  and 
Septimius  Severus,  of  the  latter  of  whom 
it  is  said,  Juventutem  egit  erroribus,  into 
furoribus  plenam  [he  spent  a  youth  full  of 
errors,  and  even  of  acts  of  madness]. 
And  yet  he  was  the  ablest  emperor  almost 
of  all  the  list.  But  reposed  natures  may 
do  well  in  youth,  as  it  is  seen  in  Augustus 
Caesar,  Cosmos,  Duke  of  Florence,  Gas- 
ton  de  Fois,  and  others.  On  the  other 
side,  heat  and  vivacity  hi  age  is  an  excel- 
lent composition  for  business.  Young 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


men  are  fitter  to  invent  than  to  judge, 
fitter  for  execution  than  for  counsel,  and 
fitter  for  new  projects  than  for  settled  busi- 
ness. For  the  experience  of  age,  in 
things  that  fall  within  the  compass  of  it, 
directeth  them ;  but  in  new  things  abuseth 
them.  The  errors  of  young  men  are  the 
ruin  of  business;  but  the  errors  of  aged 
men  amount  but  to  this,  that  more  might 
have  been  done,  or  sooner.  Young  men, 
in  the  conduct  and  manage  of  actions, 
embrace  more  than  they  can  hold;  stir 
more  than  they  can  quiet;  fly  to  the  end, 
without  consideration  of  the  means  and 
degrees;  pursue  some  few  principles, 
which  they  have  chanced  upon,  absurdly; 
care  not  to  innovate,  which  draws  un- 
known inconveniences;  use  extreme  rem- 
edies at  first;  and,  that  which  doubleth 
all  errors,  will  not  acknowledge  or  retract 
them,  like  an  unready  horse,  that  will 
neither  stop  nor  turn.  Men  of  age  object 
too  much,  consult  too  long,  adventure  too 
little,  repent  too  soon,  and  seldom  drive 
business  home  to  the  full  period,  but  con- 
tent themselves  with  a  mediocrity  of  suc- 
cess. Certainly  it  is  good  to  compound 
employments  of  both,  for  that  will  be  good 
for  the  present,  because  the  virtues  of 
either  age  may  correct  the  defects  of  both; 
'  and  good  for  succession,  that  young  men 
may  be  learners,  while  men  in  age  are 
actors;  and,  lastly,  good  for  extern  ac- 
cidents, because  authority  followeth  old 
men,  and  favor  and  popularity  youth. 
But  for  the  moral  part  perhaps  youth 
will  have  the  preeminence,  as  age  hath 
for  the  politic.  A  certain  rabbin  upon 
the  text,  "Your  young  men  shall  see 
visions,  and  your  old  men  shall  dream 
dreams,"  inferreth  that  young  men  are 
admitted  nearer  to  God  than  old,  be- 
cause vision  is  a  clearer  revelation  than 
a  dream.  And  certainly  the  more  a  man 
drinketh  of  the  world  the  more  it  in- 
toxicateth;  and  age  doth  profit  rather  in 
the  powers  of  understanding  than  in  the 
virtues  of  the  will  and  affections.  There 
be  some  have  an  over-early  ripeness  in 
their  years,  which  fadeth  betimes;  these 
are,  first,  such  as  have  brittle  wits,  the 
edge  whereof  is  soon  turned — such  as  was 


Hermogenes,  the  rhetorician,  whose  books 
are  exceeding  subtle,  who  afterwards 
waxed  stupid.  A  second  sort  is  of  those 
that  have  some  natural  dispositions, 
which  have  better  grace  hi  youth  than  in 
age,  such  as  is  a  fluent  and  luxuriant 
speech,  which  becomes  youth  well,  but 
not  age;  so  Tully  saith  of  Hortensius, 
Idem  manebal,  nequc  idem  decebat.  [He 
continued  the  same,  when  it  was  no  longer 
becoming.]  The  third  is  of  such  as  take 
too  high  a  strain  at  the  first,  and  are  mag- 
nanimous more  than  tract  of  years  can  up- 
hold; as  was  Scipio  Africanus,  of  whom 
Livy  saith  in  effect,  Ultima  primis  cede- 
bant.  [His  end  fell  below  his  beginning.] 

XL VII. — OF  NEGOTIATING 

IT  is  generally  better  to  deal  by  speech 
than  by  letter,  and  by  the  mediation  of 
a  third  than  by  a  man's  self.  Letters 
are  good,  when  a  man  would  draw  an 
answer  by  letter  back  again;  or  when  it 
may  serve  for  a  man's  justification  after- 
wards to  produce  his  own  letter;  or  where 
it  may  be  danger  to  be  interrupted,  or 
heard  by  pieces.  To  deal  in  person  is 
good,  when  a  man's  face  breedeth  regard, 
as  commonly  with  inferiors;  or  in  tender 
cases,  where  a  man's  eye  upon  the  coun- 
tenance of  him  with  whom  he  speaketh 
may  give  him  a  direction  how  far  to  go; 
and  generally,  where  a  man  will  reserve 
to  himself  liberty,  either  to  disavow  or  to 
expound.  In  choice  of  instruments,  it  is 
better  to  choose  men  of  a  plainer  sort, 
that  are  like  to  do  that  that  is  committed 
to  them,  and  to  report  back  again  faith- 
fully the  success,  than  those  that  are  cun- 
ning to  contrive  out  of  other  men's  busi- 
ness somewhat  to  grace  themselves,  and 
will  help  the  matter  in  report,  for  satis- 
faction sake.  Use  also  such  persons  as 
affect  the  business  wherein  they  are  em- 
ployed, for  that  quickeneth  much;  and 
such  as  are  fit  for  the  matter,  as  bold  men 
for  expostulation,  fair-spoken  men  for 
persuasion,  crafty  men  for  inquiry  and 
observation,  forward  and  absurd  men  for 
business  that  doth  not  well  bear  out  itself. 
Use  also  such  as  have  been  lucky,  and  pre- 


ESSAYS 


419 


vailed  before  in  things  wherein  you 
have  employed  them;  for  that  breeds 
confidence,  and  they  will  strive  to  main- 
tain their  prescription. 

It  is  better  to  sound  a  person  with  whom 
one  deals,  afar  off,  than  to  fall  upon  the 
point  at  first,  except  you  mean  to  surprise 
him  by  some  short  question.  It  is  better 
dealing  with  men  in  appetite,  than  with 
those  that  are  where  they  would  be.  If  a 
man  deal  with  another  upon  conditions, 
the  start  or  first  performance  is  all;  which 
a  man  cannot  reasonably  demand,  except 
either  the  nature  of  the  thing  be  such 
which  must  go  before;  or  else  a  man  can 
persuade  the  other  party,  that  he  shall 
still  need  him  in  some  other  thing;  or  else 
that  he  be  counted  the  honester  man. 
All  practice  is  to  discover,  or  to  work. 
Men  discover  themselves  in  trust,  in 
passion,  at  unawares;  and  of  necessity, 
when  they  would  have  somewhat  done, 
and  cannot  find  an  apt  pretext.  If  you 
would  work  any  man,  you  must  either 
know  his  nature  and  fashions,  and  so 
lead  him,  or  his  ends,  and  so  persuade 
him,  or  his  weakness  and  disadvantages, 
and  so  awe  him,  or  those  that  have  in- 
terest in  him,  and  so  govern  him.  In 
dealing  with  cunning  persons,  we  must 
ever  consider  their  ends  to  interpret 
their  speeches,  and  it  is  good  to  say 
little  to  them,  and  that  which  they  least 
look  for.  In  all  negotiations  of  difficulty 
a  man  may  not  look  to  sow  and  reap  at 
once,  but  must  prepare  business,  and  so 
ripen  it  by  degrees. 

L. — OF  STUDIES 

STUDIES  serve  for  delight,  for  orna- 
ment, and  for  ability.  Their  chief  use 
for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring; 
for  ornament  is  in  discourse;  and  for 
ability  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition 
of  business.  For  expert  men  can  exe- 
cute, and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars, 
one  by  one;  but  the  general  counsels  and 
the  plots  and  marshalling  of  affairs 
come  best  from  those  that  are  learned. 
To  spend  too  much  tune  in  studies  is 
sloth;  to  use  them  too  much  for  orna- 


ment is  affectation;  to  make  judgment 
wholly  by  their  rules  is  the  humor  of  a 
scholar.  They  perfect  nature,  and  are 
perfected  by  experience.  For  natural 
abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that  need 
pruning  by  study;  and  studies  themselves 
do  give  forth  directions  too  much  at 
large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  ex- 
perience. Crafty  men  contemn  studies, 
simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise  men 
use  them.  For  they  teach  not  their  own 
use;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them, 
and  above  them,  won  by  observation. 
Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute;  nor 
to  believe  and  take  for  granted;  nor  to 
find  talk  and  discourse;  but  to  weigh  and 
consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted, 
others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to 
be  chewed  and  digested — that  is,  some 
books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts,  others 
to  be  read,  but  not  curiously,  and  some 
few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence 
and  attention.  Some  books  also  may  be 
read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of 
them  by  others;  but  that  would  be  only 
in  the  less  important  arguments  and  the 
meaner  sort  of  books;  else  distilled  books 
are  like  common  distilled  water,  flashy 
things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man, 
conference  a  ready  man,  and  writing  an 
exact  man.  And  therefore  if  a  man 
write  little  he  had  need  have  a  great 
memory;  if  he  confer  little  he  had  need 
have  a  present  wit;  and  if  he  read  little 
he  had  need  have  much  cunning  to  seem 
to  know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories 
make  men  wise,  poets  witty,  the  mathe- 
matics subtle,  natural  philosophy  deep, 
moral  grave,  logic  and  rhetoric  able  to 
contend,  Abeunt  sludia  in  mores  [Studies 
develop  into  habits].  Nay,  there  is  no 
stond  or  impediment  in  the  wit  but  may 
be  wrought  out  by  fit  studies,  like  as 
diseases  of  the  body  may  have  appropriate 
exercises.  Bowling  is  good  for  the  stone 
and  reins,  shooting  for  the  lungs  and 
breast,  gentle  walking  for  the  stomach, 
riding  for  the  head,  and  the  like.  So  if  a 
man's  wit  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the 
mathematics,  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his 
wit  be  called  away  never  so  little,  he  must 
begin  again;  if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  dis- 


420 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


tinguish  or  find  differences,  let  him  study 
the  schoolmen,  for  they  are  cymini  sec- 
tores  [hair-splitters];  if  he  be  not  apt  to 
beat  over  matters  and  to  call  up  one  thing 


to  prove  and  illustrate  another,  let  him 
study  the  lawyer's  cases.  So  every  defect 
of  the  mind  may  have  a  special  receipt. 

(1625) 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  (1667-1745) 

Swift  became  the  greatest  of  English  prose  satirists.  He  was  a  man  who  saw  too  deeply  into  the 
springs  of  human  selfishness  and  evil  to  be  able  to  gain  a  truly  just  view  of  human  life.  Possessed  of  a 
powerful  pen,  he  was  unsparing  in  his  exposure  of  human  frailty.  "The  Tale  of  a  Tub,"  "The  Battle 
of  the  Books,"  and  "Gulliver's  Travels,"  are  his  most  famous  satires.  The  following  essays  are  cele- 
brated for  their  trenchant  attack  upon  the  inhumanity  and  hypocrisy  of  man,  being  in  their  nature 
masterpieces  of  irony. 


AN  ARGUMENT 

To  prove  that  the  abolishing  of  Christianity 
in  England  may,  as  things  now  stand,  be  at- 
tended with  some  inconveniences,  and  perhaps 
not  produce  those  many  good  effects  proposed 
thereby. 

I  AM  very  sensible  what  a  weakness  and 
presumption  it  is,  to  reason  against  the 
general  humor  and  disposition  of  the 
world.  I  remember  it  was  with  great 
justice,  and  a  due  regard  to  the  freedom 
both  of  the  public  and  the  press,  for- 
bidden upon  several  penalties  to  write,  or 
discourse,  or  lay  wages  against  the  Union, 
even  before  it  was  confirmed  by  parlia- 
ment, because  that  was  looked  upon  as  a 
design  to  oppose  the  current  of  the  people, 
which,  besides  the  folly  of  it,  is  a  manifest 
breach  of  the  fundamental  law  that  makes 
this  majority  of  opinion  the  voice  of  God. 
In  like  manner,  and  for  the  very  same 
reasons,  it  may  perhaps  be  neither  safe  nor 
prudent  to  argue  against  the  abolishing  of 
Christianity,  at  a  juncture  when  all  par- 
ties appear  so  unanimously  determined 
upon  the  point,  as  we  cannot  but  allow 
from  their  actions,  their  discourses  and 
their  writings.  However,  I  know  not  how, 
whether  from  the  affectation  of  singularity, 
or  the  perverseness  of  human  nature,  but 
so  it  unhappily  falls  out,  that  I  cannot  be 
entirely  of  this  opinion.  Nay,  though  I 
were  sure  an  order  were  issued  for  my 
immediate  prosecution  by  the  Attorney- 
General,  I  should  still  confess  that  in  the 
present  posture  of  our  affairs  at  home  or 
abroad,  I  do  not  yet  see  the  absolute  ne- 
cessity of  extirpating  the  Christian  religion 
from  among  us. 


This  perhaps  may  appear  too  great  a 
paradox  even  for  our  wise  and  paradoxical 
age  to  endure;  therefore  I  shall  handle 
it  with  all  tenderness,  and  with  the  utmost 
deference  to  that  great  and  profound  ma- 
jority which  is  of  another  sentiment. 

And  yet  the  curious  may  please  to  ob- 
serve, how  much  the  genius  of  a  nation  is 
liable  to  alter  in  half  an  age.  I  have  heard 
it  affirmed  for  certain  by  some  very  old 
people,  that  the  contrary  opinion  was 
even  in  their  memories  as  much  in  vogue 
as  the  other  is  now;  and  that  a  project 
for  the  abolishing  of  Christianity  would 
then  have  appeared  as  singular,  and  been 
thought  as  absurd,  as  it  would  be  at  this 
time  to  write  or  discourse  in  its  defence. 

Therefore  I  freely  own  that  all  appear- 
ances are  against  me.  The  system  of  the 
Gospel,  after  the  fate  of  other  systems, 
is  generally  antiquated  and  exploded; 
and  the  mass  or  body  of  the  common 
people,  among  whom  it  seems  to  have 
had  its  latest  credit,  are  now  grown  as 
much  ashamed  of  it  as  their  betters; 
opinions,  like  fashions,  always  descending 
from  those  of  quality  to  the  middle  sort, 
and  thence  to  the  vulgar,  where  at  length 
they  are  dropped  and  vanish. 

But  here  I  would  not  be  mistaken,  and 
must  therefore  be  so  bold  as  to  borrow  a 
distinction  from  the  writers  on  the  other 
side,  when  they  make  a  difference  betwixt 
nominal  and  real  Trinitarians.  I  hope 
no  reader  imagines  me  so  weak  to  stand 
up  in  the  defense  of  real  Christianity,  such 
as  used  in  primitive  times  (if  we  may 
believe  the  authors  of  those  ages)  to  have 
an  influence  upon  men's  belief  and  actions; 


ESSAYS 


421 


to  offer  at  the  restoring  of  that  would 
indeed  be  a  wild  project;  it  would  be  to 
dig  up  foundations;  to  destroy  at  one  blow 
all  the  wit,  and  half  the  learning  of  the 
kingdom;  to  break  the  entire  frame  and 
constitution  of  things;  to  ruin  trade,  ex- 
tinguish arts  and  sciences  with  the  pro- 
fessors of  them;  in  short,  to  turn  our 
courts,  exchanges,  and  shops  into  deserts; 
and  would  be  full  as  absurd  as  the  proposal 
of  Horace,  where  he  advises  the  Romans 
all  in  a  body  to  leave  their  city,  and  seek  a 
new  seat  in  some  remote  part  of  the  world, 
by  way  of  cure  for  the  corruption  of  their 
manners. 

Therefore  I  think  this  caution  was  in 
itself  altogether  unnecessary  (which  I 
have  inserted  only  to  prevent  all  pos- 
sibility of  cavilling),  since  every  candid 
reader  will  easily  understand  my  discourse 
to  be  intended  only  in  defense  of  nominal 
Christianity;  the  other  having  been  for 
some  time  wholly  laid  aside  by  general 
consent,  as  utterly  inconsistent  with  our 
present  schemes  of  wealth  and  power. 

But  why  we  should  therefore  cast  off 
the  name  and  title  of  Christians,  although 
the  general  opinion  and  resolution  be  so 
violent  for  it,  I  confess  I  cannot  (with 
submission)  apprehend,  nor  is  the  conse- 
quence necessary.  However,  since  the 
undertakers  propose  such  wonderful  ad- 
vantages to  the  nation  by  this  project, 
and  advance  many  plausible  objections 
against  the  system  of  Christianity,  I  shall 
briefly  consider  the  strength  of  both, 
fairly  allow  them  their  greatest  weight, 
and  offer  such  answers  as  I  think  most 
reasonable.  After  which  I  will  beg  leave 
to  show  what  inconveniences  may  pos- 
sibly happen  by  such  an  innovation,  in  the 
present  posture  of  our  affairs. 

First,  One  great  advantage  proposed 
by  the  abolishing  of  Christianity  is,  that 
it  would  very  much  enlarge  and  estab- 
lish liberty  of  conscience,  that  great  bul- 
wark of  our  nation,  and  of  the  Protestant 
Religion,  which  is  still  too  much  limited 
by  priestcraft,  notwithstanding  all  the 
good  intentions  of  the  legislature,  as  we 
have  lately  found  by  a  severe  instance. 
For  it  is  confidently  reported,  that  two 


young  gentlemen  of  real  hopes,  bright  wit, 
and  profound  judgment,  who  upon  a 
thorough  examination  of  causes  and  effects, 
and  by  the  mere  force  of  natural  abilities, 
without  the  least  tincture  of  learning, 
having  made  a  discovery,  that  there  was 
no  God,  and  generously  communicating 
their  thoughts  for  the  good  of  the  public, 
were  sometime  ago,  by  an  unparalleled 
severity,  and  upon  I  know  not  what 
obsolete  law,  broke  for  blasphemy.  And 
as  it  has  been  wisely  observed,  if  persecu- 
tion once  begins,  no  man  alive  knows  how 
far  it  may  reach,  or  where  it  will  end. 

In  answer  to  all  which,  with  deference 
to  wiser  judgments,  I  think  this  rather 
shows  the  necessity  of  a  nominal  religion 
among  us.  Great  wits  love  to  be  free  with 
the  highest  objects;  and  if  they  cannot 
be  allowed  a  God  to  revile  or  renounce, 
they  will  speak  evil  of  dignities,  abuse  the 
government,  and  reflect  upon  the  ministry ; 
which  I  am  sure  few  will  deny  to  be  of 
much  more  pernicious  consequence,  ac- 
cording to  the  saying  of  Tiberius,  deorum 
offensa  diis  curce.  As  to  the  particular 
fact  related,  I  think  it  is  not  fair  to  argue 
from  one  instance,  perhaps  another  can- 
not be  produced;  yet  (to  the  comfort  of  all 
those  who  may  be  apprehensive  of  per- 
secution) blasphemy  we  know  is  freely 
spoke  a  million  of  tunes  in  every  coffee- 
house and  tavern,  or  wherever  else  good 
company  meet.  It  must  be  allowed 
indeed,  that  to  break  an  Engh'sh  free- 
born  officer  only  for  blasphemy,  was,  to 
speak  the  gentlest  of  such  an  action,  a 
very  high  strain  of  absolute  power.  Little 
can  be  said  in  excuse  for  the  general; 
perhaps  he  was  afraid  it  might  give  of- 
fense to  the  allies,  among  whom,  for  aught 
we  know,  it  may  be  the  custom  of  the 
country  to  believe  a  God.  But  if  he 
argued,  as  some  have  done,  upon  a  mis- 
taken principle,  that  an  officer  who  is 
guilty  of  speaking  blasphemy,  may  some 
time  or  other  proceed  so  far  as  to  raise  a 
mutiny,  the  consequence  is  by  no  means 
to  be  admitted;  for,  surely  the  commander 
of  an  English  army  is  likely  to  be  but  ill 
obeyed,  whose  soldiers  fear  and  reverence 
him  as  little  as  they  do  a  Deity. 


422 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


It  is  further  objected  against  the  Gospel 
System,  that  it  obliges  men  to  the  belief 
of  things  too  difficult  for  Freethinkers, 
and  such]who  have  shaken  off  the  prej- 
udices that  usually  cling  to  a  confined 
education.  To  which  I  answer,  that 
men  should  be  cautious  how  they  raise 
objections  which  reflect  upon  the  wisdom 
of  the  nation.  Is  not  everybody  freely 
allowed  to  believe  whatever  he  pleases, 
and  to  publish  his  belief  to  the  world 
whenever  he  thinks  fit,  especially  if  it 
serves  to  strengthen  the  party  which  is 
in  the  right?  Would  any  indifferent  for- 
eigner, who  should  read  the  trumpery 
lately  written  by  Asgil,  Tindal,  Toland, 
Coward,  and  forty  more,  imagine  the 
Gospel  to  be  our  rule  of  faith,  and  con- 
firmed by  parliaments?  Does  any  man 
either  believe,  or  say  he  believes,  or  desire 
to  have  it  thought  that  he  says  he  be- 
lieves, one  syllable  of  the  matter?  And 
is  any  man  worse  received  upon  that  score, 
or  does  he  find  his  want  of  nominal  faith 
a  disadvantage  to  him  in  the  pursuit  of  any 
civil  or  military  employment?  What  if 
there  be  an  old  dormant  statute  or  two 
against  him,  are  they  not  now  obsolete, 
to  a  degree,  that  Empson  and  Dudley 
themselves  if  they  were  now  alive,  would 
find  it  impossible  to  put  them  in  execution? 

It  is  likewise  urged,  that  there  are,  by 
computation,  in  this  kingdom,  above  ten 
thousand  parsons,  whose  revenues,  added 
to  those  of  my  lords  the  bishops,  would 
suffice  to  maintain  at  least  two  hundred 
young  gentlemen  of  wit  and  pleasure, 
and  free-thinking,  enemies  to  priestcraft, 
narrow  principles,  pedantry,  and  prej- 
udices; who  might  be  an  ornament 
to  the  Court  and  Town:  and  then,  again, 
so  great  a  number  of  able  [bodied]  divines 
might  be  a  recruit  to  our  fleet  and  armies. 
This  indeed  appears  to  be  a  consideration 
of  some  weight;  but  then,  on  the  other 
side,  several  things  deserve  to  be  con- 
sidered likewise;  as,  first,  whether  it  may 
not  be  thought  necessary  that  in  certain 
tracts  of  country,  like  what  we  call  par- 
ishes, there  shall  be  one  man  at  least  of 
abilities  to  read  and  write.  Then  it 
seems  a  wrong  computation,  that  the 


revenues  of  the  Church  throughout  this 
island  would  be  large  enough  to  maintain 
two  hundred  young  gentlemen,  or  even 
half  that  number,  after  the  present  refined 
way  of  living;  that  is,  to  allow  each  of 
them  such  a  rent  as,  in  the  modern  form 
of  speech,  would  make  them  easy.  But 
still  there  is  in  this  project  a  greater  mis- 
chief behind;  and  we  ought  to  beware  of 
the  woman's  folly,  who  killed  the  hen 
that  every  morning  laid  her  a  golden  egg. 
For  pray  what  would  become  of  the  race 
of  men  in  the  next  age,  if  we  had  nothing 
to  trust  to  beside  the  scrofulous,  con- 
sumptive productions  furnished  by  our 
men  of  wit  and  pleasure,  when,  having 
squandered  away  their  vigor,  health, 
and  estates,  they  are  forced  by  some  dis- 
agreeable marriage  to  piece  up  their 
broken  fortunes,  and  entail  rottenness 
and  politeness  on  their  posterity?  Now, 
here  are  ten  thousand  persons  reduced  by 
the  wise  regulations  of  Henry  VIII.,  to 
the  necessity  of  a  low  diet,  and  moderate 
exercise,  who  are  the  only  great  restorers 
of  our  breed,  without  which  the  nation 
would  in  an  age  or  two  become  one  great 
hospital. 

Another  advantage  proposed  by  the 
abolishing  of  Christianity,  is  the  clear 
gain  of  one  day  in  seven,  which  is  now 
entirely  lost,  and  consequently  the  king- 
dom one  seventh  less  considerable  in 
trade,  business,  and  pleasure;  besides 
the  loss  to  the  public  of  so  many  stately 
structures  now  in  the  hands  of  the  Clergy, 
which  might  be  converted  into  play- 
houses, exchanges,  market-houses,  com- 
mon dormitories,  and  other  public  edifices. 

I  hope  I  shall  be  forgiven  a  hard  word, 
if  I  call  this  a  perfect  cavil.  I  readily  own 
there  has  been  an  old  custom  time  out  of 
mind,  for  people  to  assemble  in  the  churches 
every  Sunday,  and  that  shops  are  still 
frequently  shut,  in  order  as  it  is  con- 
ceived, to  preserve  the  memory  of  that 
ancient  practice,  but  how  this  can  prove 
a  hindrance  to  business  or  pleasure,  is 
hard  to  imagine.  What  if  the  men  of 
pleasure  are  forced  one  day  in  the  week, 
to  game  at  home  instead  of  the  chocolate- 
houses?  Are  not  the  taverns  and  coffee- 


ESSAYS 


423 


houses  open?  Can  there  be  a  more  con- 
venient season  for  taking  a  dose  of  physic? 
Is  not  that  the  chief  day  for  traders  to 
sum  up  the  accounts  of  the  week,  and  for 
lawyers  to  prepare  their  briefs?  But  I 
would  fain  know  how  it  can  be  pretended 
that  the  churches  are  misapplied.  Where 
are  more  appointments  and  rendezvouses 
of  gallantry?  Where  more  care  to  appear 
in  the  foremost  box  with  greater  advantage 
of  dress?  Where  more  meetings  for  busi- 
ness? Where  more  bargains  driven  of  all 
sorts?  And  where  so  many  conveniences 
or  enticements  to  sleep? 

There  is  one  advantage  greater  than  any 
of  the  foregoing,  proposed  by  the  abolish- 
ing of  Christianity:  that  it  will  utterly  ex- 
tinguish parties  among  us,  by  removing 
those  factious  distinctions  of  High  and 
Low  Church,  of  Whig  and  Tory,  Presby- 
terian and  Church  of  England,  which  are 
now  so  many  mutual  clogs  upon  public 
proceedings,  and  are  apt  to  prefer  the 
gratifying  themselves,  or  depressing  their 
adversaries,  before  the  most  important 
interest  of  the  State. 

I  confess,  if  it  were  certain  that  so  great 
an  advantage  would  redound  to  the  nation 
by  this  expedient,  I  would  submit  and  be 
silent;  but  will  any  man  say,  that  if  the 
words,  whoring,  drinking,  cheating,  lying, 
stealing,  were  by  act  of  parliament  ejected 
out  of  the  English  tongue  and  dictionaries, 
we  should  all  awake  next  morning  chaste 
and  temperate,  honest  and  just,  and 
lovers  of  truth?  Is  this  a  fair  conse- 
quence? Or,  if  the  physicians  would 
forbid  us  to  pronounce  the  words  pox, 
gout,  rheumatism,  and  stone,  would  that 
expedient  serve  like  so  many  talismans  to 
destroy  the  diseases  themselves?  Are 
party  and  faction  rooted  in  men's  hearts 
no  deeper  than  phrases  borrowed  from 
religion,  or  founded  upon  no  firmer  prin- 
ciples? And  is  our  language  so  poor  that 
we  cannot  find  other  terms  to  express 
them?  Are  envy,  pride,  avarice,  and 
ambition  such  ill  nomenclators,  that  they 
cannot  furnish  appellations  for  their 
owners?  Will  not  heydukes  and  mama- 
lukes,  mandarins  and  patshaws,  or  any 
other  words  formed  at  pleasure,  serve  to 


distinguish  those  who  are  in  the  ministry 
from  others  who  would  be  in  it  if  they 
could?  What,  for  instance,  is  easier  than 
to  vary  the  form  of  speech,  and  instead 
of  the  word  church,  make  it  a  question  in 
politics,  whether  the  monument  be  in 
danger?  Because  religion  was  nearest  at 
hand  to  furnish  a  few  convenient  phrases, 
is  our  invention  so  barren,  we  can  find  no 
other?  Suppose,  for  argument  sake,  that 
the  Tories  favored  Margarita,  the  Whigs, 
Mrs.  Tofts,  and  the  Trimmers,  Valentini, 
would  not  Margaritians,  Toftians,  and 
Valentinians  be  very  tolerable  marks  of 
distinction?  The  Prasini  and  Veniti,  two 
most  virulent  factions  in  Italy,  began 
(if  I  remember  right)  by  a  distinction  of 
colors  in  ribbons,  which  we  might  do  with 
as  good  a  grace  about  the  dignity  of  the 
blue  and  the  green,  and  would  serve  as 
properly  to  divide  the  Court,  the  Parlia- 
ment, and  the  Kingdom  between  them,  as 
any  terms  of  art  whatsoever,  borrowed 
from  religion.  And  therefore  I  think, 
there  is  little  force  in  this  objection 
against  Christianity,  or  prospect  of  so 
great  an  advantage  as  is  proposed  in  the 
abolishing  of  it. 

'T  is  again  objected,  as  a  very  absurd, 
ridiculous  custom,  that  a  set  of  men  should 
be  suffered,  much  less  employed  and  hired, 
to  bawl  one  day  in  seven  against  the  law- 
fulness of  those  methods  most  in  use 
towards  the  pursuit  of  greatness,  riches, 
and  pleasure,which  are  the  constant  prac- 
tice of  all  men  alive  on  the  other  six. 
But  this  objection  is,  I  think,  a  little 
unworthy  so  refined  an  age  as  ours.  Let 
us  argue  this  matter  calmly.  I  appeal 
to  the  breast  of  any  polite  free-thinker 
whether  in  the  pursuit  of  gratifying  a 
predominant  passion,  he  hath  not  always 
felt  a  wonderful  incitement,  by  reflecting 
it  was  a  thing  forbidden;  and  therefore 
we  see,  in  order  to  cultivate  this  taste, 
the  wisdom  of  the  nation  hath  taken 
special  care,  that  the  ladies  should  be 
furnished  with  prohibited  silks,  and  the 
men  with  prohibited  wine.  And  indeed 
it  were  to  be  wished  that  some  other 
prohibitions  were  promoted,  in  order  to 
improve  the  pleasures  of  the  town:  which, 


424 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


for  want  of  such  expedients,  begin  al- 
ready, as  I  am  told,  to  flag  and  grow  lan- 
guid, giving  way  daily  to  cruel  inroads 
from  the  spleen. 

'T  is  likewise  proposed  as  a  great  advan- 
tage to  the  public,  that  if  we  once  dis- 
card the  system  of  the  Gospel,  all  religion 
will  of  course  be  banished  forever;  and 
consequently  along  with  it  those  grievous 
prejudices  of  education,  which,  under 
the  names  of  virtue,  conscience,  honor, 
justice,  and  the  like,  are  so  apt  to  disturb 
the  peace  of  human  minds,  and  the  no- 
tions whereof  are  so  hard  to  be  eradicated 
by  right  reason  or  free-thinking,  some- 
times during  the  whole  course  of  our 
lives. 

Here  first,  I  observe  how  difficult  it  is 
to  get  rid  of  a  phrase  which  the  world 
has  once  grown  fond  of,  though  the  occa- 
sion that  first  produced  it,  be  entirely 
taken  away.  For  some  years  past,  if  a 
man  had  but  an  ill-favored  nose,  the  deep 
thinkers  of  the  age  would  some  way  or 
other  contrive  to  impute  the  cause  to  the 
prejudice  of  his  education.  From  this 
fountain  were  said  to  be  derived  all  our 
foolish  notions  of  justice,  piety,  love  of 
our  country;  all  our  opinions  of  God  or  a 
future  state,  heaven,  hell,  and  the  like; 
and  there  might  formerly  perhaps  have 
been  some  pretense  for  this  charge.  But 
so  effectual  care  has  been  taken  to  remove 
those  prejudices,  by  an  entire  change  in  the 
methods  of  education,  that  (with  honor 
I  mention  it  to  our  polite  innovators)  the 
young  gentlemen  who  are  now  on  the 
scene,  seem  to  have  not  the  least  tincture 
of  those  infusions,  or  string  of  those  weeds; 
and,  by  consequence,  the  reason  for 
abolishing  nominal  Christianity  upon  that 
pretext,  is  wholly  ceased. 

For  the  rest,  it  may  perhaps  admit  a  con- 
troversy, whether  the  banishing  all  no- 
tions of  religion  whatsoever,  would  be 
convenient  for  the  vulgar.  Not  that  I 
am  in  the  least  of  opinion  with  those  who 
hold  religion  to  have  been  the  invention 
of  politicians,  to  keep  the  lower  part  of 
the  world  hi  awe  by  the  fear  of  invisible 
powers;  unless  mankind  were  then  very 
different  from  what  it  is  now;  for  I  look 


upon  the  mass  or  body  of  our  people  here 
in  England,  to  be  as  free  thinkers,  that  is  to 
say,  as  staunch  unbelievers,  as  any  of  the 
highest  rank.  But  I  conceive  some  scat- 
tered notions  about  a  superior  power  to  be 
of  singular  use  for  the  common  people,  as 
furnishing  excellent  materials  to  keep 
children  quiet  when  they  grow  peevish, 
and  providing  topics  of  amusement  in  a 
tedious  winter-night. 
Lastly,  't  is  proposed  as  a  singular 
advantage,  that  the  abolishing  of  Chris- 
tianity will  very  much  contribute  to  the 
uniting  of  Protestants,  by  enlarging  the 
terms  of  communion  so  as  to  take  in  all 
sorts  of  Dissenters,  who  are  now  shut  oul 
of  the  pale  upon  account  of  a  few  cere- 
monies which  all  sides  confess  to  be  things 
indifferent.  That  this  alone  will  effec- 
tually answer  the  great  ends  of  a  scheme  for 
comprehension,  by  opening  a  large  noble 
gate,  at  which  all  bodies  may  enter; 
whereas  the  chaffering  with  Dissenters, 
and  dodging  about  this  or  t'other  ceremony, 
is  but  like  opening  a  few  wickets,  and 
leaving  them  at  jar,  by  which  no  more 
than  one  can  get  in  at  a  time,  and  that, 
not  without  stooping,  and  sideling,  and 
squeezing  his  body. 

To  all  this  I  answer,  that  there  is  one 
darling  inclination  of  mankind,  which 
usually  affects  to  be  a  retainer  to  religion, 
though  she  be  neither  its  parent,  its  god- 
mother, or  its  friend.  I  mean  the  spirit 
of  opposition,  that  lived  long  before 
Christianity,  and  can  easily  subsist  with- 
out it.  Let  us,  for  instance,  examine 
wherein  the  opposition  of  sectaries  among 
us  consists.  We  shall  find  Christianity 
to  have  no  share  in  it  at  all.  Does  the 
Gospel  anywhere  prescribe  a  starched, 
squeezed  countenance,  a  stiff,  formal  gait, 
a  singularity  of  manners  and  habit,  or  any 
affected  modes  of  speech  different  from 
the  reasonable  part  of  mankind?  Yet,  if 
Christianity  did  not  lend  its  name  to 
stand  in  the  gap,  and  to  employ  or  divert 
these  humors,  they  must  of  necessity  be 
spent  in  contraventions  to  the  laws  of  the 
land,  and  disturbance  of  the  public  peace. 
There  is  a  portion  of  enthusiasm  assigned 
to  every  nation,  which,  if  it  hath  not 


ESSAYS 


425 


proper  objects  to  work  on,  will  burst  out, 
and  set  all  into  a  flame.  If  the  quiet  of  a 
State  can  be  bought  by  only  flinging  men 
a  few  ceremonies  to  devour,  it  is  a  pur- 
chase no  wise  man  would  refuse.  Let 
the  mastiffs  amuse  themselves  about  a 
sheep's  skin  stuffed  with  hay,  provided  it 
will  keep  them  from  worrying  the  flock. 
The  institution  of  convents  abroad  seems 
in  one  point  a  strain  of  great  wisdom, 
there  being  few  irregularities  in  human 
passions  which  may  not  have  recourse  to 
vent  themselves  in  some  of  those  orders 
which  are  so  many  retreats  for  the  specula- 
tive, the  melancholy,  the  proud,  the  silent, 
the  politic,  and  the  morose,  to  spend  them- 
selves, and  evaporate  the  noxious  parti- 
cles; for  each  of  whom  we  in  this  island  are 
forced  to  provide  a  several  sect  of  religion, 
to  keep  them  quiet:  and  whenever  Chris- 
tianity shall  be  abolished,  the  legislature 
must  find  some  other  expedient  to  employ 
and  entertain  them.  For  what  imports 
it  how  large  a  gate  you  open,  if  there  will  be 
always  left  a  number  who  place  a  pride 
and  a  merit  in  not  coming  in? 

Having  thus  considered  the  most  im- 
portant objections  against  Christianity, 
and  the  chief  advantages  proposed  by  the 
abolishing  thereof,  I  shall  now,  with  equal 
deference  and  submission  to  wiser  judg- 
ments, as  before,  proceed  to  mention  a 
few  inconveniences  that  may  happen  if  the 
Gospel  should  be  repealed;  which  perhaps 
the  projectors  may  not  have  sufficiently 
considered. 

And  first,  I  am  very  sensible  how  much 
the  gentlemen  of  wit  and  pleasure  are  apt 
to  murmur,  and  be  choqued  at  the  sight 
of  so  many  draggled-tailed  parsons  that 
happen  to  fall  in  their  way,  and  offend 
their  eyes;  but  at  the  same  time,  these 
wise  reformers  do  not  consider  what  an 
advantage  and  felicity  it  is  for  great  wits 
to  be  always  provided  with  objects  of 
scorn  and  contempt,  in  order  to  exercise 
and  improve  their  talents,  and  divert  their 
spleen  from  falling  on  each  other,  or  on 
themselves,  especially  when  all  this  may 
be  done  without  the  least  imaginable 
danger  to  their  persons. 

And  to  urge  another  argument  of  a 


parallel  nature:  if  Christianity  were  once 
abolished,  how  could  the  free  thinkers, 
the  strong  reasoners,  and  the  men  of  pro- 
found learning  be  able  to  find  another 
subject  so  calculated  in  all  points  whereon 
to  display  their  abilities?  What  wonder- 
ful productions  of  wit  should  we  be  de- 
prived of,  from  those  whose  genius  by 
continual  practice,  hath  been  wholly 
turned  upon  raillery  and  invectives  against 
religion,  and  would  therefore  never  be 
able  to  shine  or  distinguish  themselves 
upon  any  other  subject!  We  are  daily 
complaining  of  the  great  decline  of  wit 
among  us,  and  would  we  take  away  the 
greatest,  perhaps  the  only  topic  we  have 
left?  Who  would  ever  have  suspected 
Asgil  for  a  wit,  or  Toland  for  a  philosopher, 
if  the  inexhaustible  stock  of  Christianity 
had  not  been  at  hand  to  provide  them  with 
materials?  What  other  subject  through 
all  art  or  nature  could  have  produced 
Tindal  for  a  profound  author,  or  furnished 
him  with  readers?  It  is  the  wise  choice 
of  the  subject  that  alone  adorns  and  dis- 
tinguishes the  writer.  For  had  a  hun- 
dred such  pens  as  these  been  employed  on 
the  side  of  religion,  they  would  have  im- 
mediately sunk  into  silence  and  oblivion. 
Nor  do  I  think  it  wholly  groundless,  or 
my  fears  altogether  imaginary,  that  the 
abolishing  of  Christianity  may  perhaps 
bring  the  Church  into  danger,  or  at  least 
put  the  Senate  to  the  trouble  of  another 
securing  vote.  I  desire  I  may  not  be  mis- 
taken; I  am  far  from  presuming  to  affirm 
or  think  that  the  Church  is  in  danger  at 
present,  or  as  things  now  stand;  but  we 
know  not  how  soon  it  may  be  so  when  the 
Christian  religion  is  repealed.  As  plaus- 
ible as  this  project  seems,  there  may  a 
dangerous  design  lurk  under  it.  Nothing 
can  be  more  notorious  than  that  the 
Atheists,  Deists,  Socinians,  Anti-Trini- 
tarians, and  other  sub-divisions  of  Free- 
thinkers, are  persons  of  little  zeal  for  the 
present  ecclesiastical  establishment:  their 
declared  opinion  is  for  repealing  the  Sac- 
ramental Test;  they  are  very  indifferent 
with  regard  to  ceremonies;  nor  do  they 
hold  the  Jus  Divinum  of  Episcopacy: 
therefore  this  may  be  intended  as  one 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


politic  step  toward  altering  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  Church  established,  and  setting 
up  Presbytery  in  the  stead,  which  I  leave 
to  be  further  considered  by  those  at  the 
helm. 

In  the  last  place,  I  think  nothing  can 
be  more  plain,  than  that  by  this  expedient 
we  shall  run  into  the  evil  we  chiefly  pre- 
tend to  avoid;  and  that  the  abolishment 
of  the  Christian  religion  will  be  the  readi- 
est course  we  can  take  to  introduce  Popery. 
And  I  am  the  more  inclined  to  this 
opinion  because  we  know  it  has  been 
the  constant  practice  of  the  Jesuits  to 
send  over  emissaries,  with  instructions 
to  personate  themselves  members  of  the 
several  prevailing  sects  among  us.  So 
it  is  recorded  that  they  have  at  sundry 
times  appeared  in  the  guise  of  Presby- 
terians, Anabaptists,  Independents,  and 
Quakers,  according  as  any  of  these  were 
most  in  credit;  so,  since  the  fashion  hath 
been  taken  up  of  exploding  religion,  the 
Popish  missionaries  have  not  been  want- 
ing to  mix  with  the  Free-thinkers;  among 
whom  Toland,  the  great  oracle  of  the  Anti- 
Christians,  is  an  Irish  priest,  the  son  of  an 
Irish  priest;  and  the  most  learned  and 
ingenious  author  of  a  book  called  the 
"Rights  of  the  Christian  Church,"  was  hi 
a  proper  juncture  reconciled  to  the  Rom- 
ish faith,  whose  true  son,  as  appears  by  a 
hundred  passages  in  his  treatise,  he  still 
continues.  Perhaps  I  could  add  some 
others  to  the  number:  but  the  fact  is 
beyond  dispute,  and  the  reasoning  they 
proceed  by  is  right:  for  supposing  Chris- 
tianity to  be  extinguished,  the  people  will 
never  be  at  ease  till  they  find  out  some 
other  method  of  worship,  which  will  as 
infallibly  produce  superstition  as  this  will 
end  in  Popery. 

And  therefore,  if,  notwithstanding  all 
I  have  said,  it  still  be  thought  necessary  to 
have  a  Bill  brought  in  for  repealing  Chris- 
tianity, I  would  humbly  offer  an  amend- 
ment, that  instead  of  the  word  Chris- 
tianity may  be  put  religion  in  general, 
which  I  conceive  will  much  better  answer 
all  the  good  ends  proposed  by  the  pro- 
jectors of  it.  For  as  long  as  we  leave  in 
being  a  God  and  His  providence,  with 


all  the  necessary  consequences  which  cu- 
rious and  inquisitive  men  will  be  apt  to 
draw  from  such  premises,  we  do  not  strike 
at  the  root  of  the  evil,  though  we  should 
ever  so  effectually  annihilate  the  present 
scheme  of  the  Gospel;  for  of  what  use  is 
freedom  of  thought  if  it  will  not  produce 
freedom  of  action,  which  is  the  sole  end, 
how  remote  soever  in  appearance,  of  all 
objections  against  Christianity?  and  there- 
fore, the  free  thinkers  consider  it  as  a  sort 
of  edifice,  wherein  all  the  parts  have  such 
a  mutual  dependence  on  each  other,  that 
if  you  happen  to  pull  out  one  single  nail, 
the  whole  fabric  must  fall  to  the  ground. 
This  was  happily  expressed  by  him  who 
had  heard  of  a  text  brought  for  proof  of 
the  Trinity,  which  in  an  ancient  manu- 
script was  differently  read;  he  thereupon 
immediately  took  the  hint,  and  by  a 
sudden  deduction  of  a  long  Sorites,  most 
logically  concluded:  "Why,  if  it  be  as 
you  say,  I  may  safely  drink  on,  and  defy 
the  parson."  From  which,  and  many 
the  like  instances  easy  to  be  produced,  I 
think  nothing  can  be  more  manifest  than 
that  the  quarrel  is  not  against  any  par- 
ticular points  of  hard  digestion  in  the 
Christian  system,  but  against  religion  in 
general,  which,  by  laying  restraints  on 
human  nature,  is  supposed  the  great 
enemy  to  the  freedom  of  thought  and 
action. 

Upon  the  whole,  if  it  shall  still  be 
thought  for  the  benefit  of  Church  and 
State  that  Christianity  be  abolished,  I  con- 
ceive, however,  it  may  be  more  conve- 
nient to  defer  the  execution  to  a  time  of 
peace,  and  not  venture  in  this  conjuncture 
to  disoblige  our  allies,  who,  as  it  falls  out, 
are  all  Christians,  and  many  of  them, 
by  the  prejudices  of  their  education,  so 
bigoted,  as  to  place  a  sort  of  pride  in  the 
appellation.  If,  upon  being  rejected  by 
them,  we  are  to  trust  to  an  alliance  with 
the  Turk,  we  shall  find  ourselves  much 
deceived;  for,  as  he  is  too  remote,  and 
generally  engaged  in  war  with  the  Per- 
sian emperor,  so  his  people  would  be  more 
scandalized  at  our  infidelity  than  our 
Christian  neighbors.  For  they  are  not 
only  strict  observers  of  religious  worship, 


ESSAYS 


427 


but  what  is  worse,  believe  a  God;  which 
is  more  than  required  of  us,  even  while  we 
preserve  the  name  of  Christians. 

To  conclude:  whatever  some  may  think 
of  the  great  advantages  to  trade  by  this 
favorite  scheme,  I  do  very  much  appre- 
hend that  in  six  months'  time  after  the 
Act  is  passed  for  the  extirpation  of  the 
Gospel,  the  Bank  and  East-India  Stock 
may  fall  at  least  one  per  cent.  And  since 
that  is  fifty  times  more  than  ever  the  wis- 
dom of  our  age  thought  fit  to  venture  for 
the  preservation  of  Christianity,  there  is 
no  reason  we  should  be  at  so  great  a  loss, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  destroying  it. 

(1708) 

A  MODEST  PROPOSAL 

For  preventing  the  children  of  poor  people  in 
Ireland  from  being  a  burden  to  their  parents 
or  country,  and  for  making  them  beneficial  to 
the  public. 

IT  is  a  melancholy  object  to  those  who 
walk  through  this  great  town  or  travel 
in  the  country,  when  they  see  the  streets, 
the  roads,  and  cabin  doors,  crowded  with 
beggars  of  the  female  sex,  followed  by 
three,  four,  or  six  children,  all  in  rags 
and  importuning  every  passenger  for  an 
alms.  These  mothers,  instead  of  being 
able  to  work  for  their  honest  livelihood, 
are  forced  to  employ  all  their  time  hi 
strolling  to  beg  sustenance  for  their  help- 
less infants:  who  as  they  grow  up  either 
turn  thieves  for  want  of  work,  or  leave 
their  dear  native  country  to  fight  for  the 
pretender  in  Spain,  or  sell  themselves  to 
the  Barbadoes. 

I  think  it  is  agreed  by  all  parties  that 
this  prodigious  number  of  children  in  the 
arms,  or  on  the  backs,  or  at  the  heels  of 
their  mothers,  and  frequently  of  their 
fathers,  is  in  the  present  deplorable  state 
of  the  kingdom  a  very  great  additional 
grievance;  and,  therefore,  whoever  could 
find  out  a  fair,  cheap,  and  easy  method 
of  making  these  children  sound,  useful 
members  of  the  commonwealth,  would 
deserve  so  well  of  the  public  as  to  have 
his  statue  set  up  for  a  preserver  of  the 
nation. 


But  my  intention  is  very  far  from  be- 
ing confined  to  provide  only  for  the  chil- 
dren of  professed  beggars;  it  is  of  a  much 
greater  extent,  and  shall  take  in  the  whole 
number  of  infants  at  a  certain  age  who 
are  born  of  parents  in  effect  as  little  able 
to  support  them  as  those  who  demand 
our  charity  in  the  streets. 

As  to  my  own  part,  having  turned  my 
thoughts  for  many  years  upon  this  im- 
portant subject,  and  maturely  weighed 
the  several  schemes  of  other  projectors, 
I  have  always  found  them  grossly  mis- 
taken in  the  computation.  It  is  true,  a 
child  just  dropped  from  its  dam  may  be 
supported  by  her  milk  for  a  solar  year, 
with  little  other  nourishment;  at  most 
not  above  the  value  of  two  shillings,  which 
the  mother  may  certainly  get,  or  the  value 
in  scraps,  by  her  lawful  occupation  of 
begging;  and  it  is  exactly  at  one  year 
old  that  I  propose  to  provide  for  them 
hi  such  a  manner  as  instead  of  being  a 
charge  upon  their  parents  or  the  parish, 
or  wanting  food  and  raiment  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives,  they  shall  on  the  contrary 
contribute  to  the  feeding,  and  partly  to 
the  clothing,  of  many  thousands. 

There  is  likewise  another  great  ad- 
vantage in  my  scheme,  that  it  will  pre- 
vent those  voluntary  abortions,  and  that 
horrid  practice  of  women  murdering 
their  bastard  children,  alas!  too  frequent 
among  us!  sacrificing  the  poor  innocent 
babes  I  doubt  more  to  avoid  the  expense 
than  the  shame,  which  would  move  tears 
and  pity  in  the  most  savage  and  inhuman 
breast. 

The  number  of  souls  in  this  kingdom 
being  usually  reckoned  one  million  and 
a  half,  of  these  I  calculate  there  may  be 
about  two  hundred  thousand  couple 
whose  wives  are  breeders;  from  which 
number  I  subtract  thirty  thousand  couples 
who  are  able  to  maintain  their  own  chil- 
dren, although  I  apprehend  there  cannot 
be  so  many,  under  the  present  distresses 
of  the  kingdom;  but  this  being  granted, 
there  will  remain  an  hundred  and  seventy 
thousand  breeders.  I  again  subtract 
fifty  thousand  for  those  women  who  mis- 
carry, or  whose  children  die  by  accident  or 


428 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


disease  within  the  year.  There  only  re- 
mains one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
children  of  poor  parents  annually  born. 
The  question  therefore  is,  how  this  num- 
ber shall  be  reared  and  provided  for, 
which,  as  I  have  already  said,  under  the 
present  situation  of  affairs,  is  utterly 
impossible  by  all  the  methods  hitherto 
proposed.  For  we  can  neither  employ 
them  in  handicraft  or  agriculture;  we 
neither  build  houses  (I  mean  in  the 
country)  nor  cultivate  land:  they  can 
very  seldom  pick  up  a  livelihood  by  steal- 
ing, till  they  arrive  at  six  years  old,  except 
where  they  are  of  towardly  parts,  although 
I  confess  they  learn  the  rudiments  much 
earlier,  during  which  time,  they  can  how- 
ever be  properly  looked  upon  only  as 
probationers,  as  I  have  been  informed  by 
a  principal  gentleman  in  the  county  of 
Cavan,  who  protested  to  me  that  he  never 
knew  above  one  or  two  instances  under 
the  age  of  six  even  in  a  part  of  the  king- 
dom so  renowned  for  the  quickest  pro- 
ficiency in  that  art. 

I  am  assured  by  our  merchants,  that  a 
boy  or  a  girl  before  twelve  years  old  is 
no  salable  commodity;  and  even  when 
they  come  to  this  age  they  will  not  yield 
above  three  pounds,  or  three  pounds  and 
half-a-crown  at  most  on  the  exchange; 
which  cannot  turn  to  account  either  to 
the  parents  or  kingdom,  the  charge  of 
nutriment  and  rags  having  been  at  least 
four  times  that  value. 

I  shall  now  therefore  humbly  propose 
my  own  thoughts,  which  I  hope  will  not 
be  liable  to  the  least  objection. 

I  have  been  assured  by  a  very  knowing 
American  of  my  acquaintance  in  London, 
that  a  young  healthy  child  well  nursed 
is  at  a  year  old  a  most  delicious,  nourish- 
ing, and  wholesome  food,  whether  stewed, 
roasted,  baked,  or  boiled;  and  I  make  no 
doubt  that  it  will  equally  serve  in  a 
fricassee  or  a  ragout. 

I  do  therefore  humbly  offer  it  to  pub- 
lic consideration  that  of  the  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  children  already 
computed,  twenty  thousand  may  be 
reserved.  .  .  .  The  remaining  hun- 
dred thousand  may,  at  a  year  old,  be 


offered  in  the  sale  to  the  persons  of 
quality  and  fortune  through  the  kingdom; 
always  advising  the  mother  to  let  them 
suck  plentifully  in  the  last  month,  so  as 
to  render  them  plump  and  fat  for  a  good 
table.  A  child  will  make  two  dishes  at 
an  entertainment  for  friends;  and  when 
the  family  dines  alone,  the  fore  or  hind 
quarter  will  make  a  reasonable  dish,  and 
seasoned  with  a  little  pepper  or  salt  will 
be  very  good  boiled  on  the  fourth  day, 
especially  hi  winter. 

I  have  reckoned  upon  a  medium  that  a 
child  just  born  will  weigh  twelve  pounds, 
and  in  a  solar  year,  if  tolerably  nursed, 
increaseth  to  twenty-eight  pounds. 

I  grant  this  food  will  be  somewhat 
dear,  and  therefore  very  proper  for  land- 
lords, who,  as  they  have  already  devoured 
most  of  the  parents,  seem  to  have  the  best 
title  to  the  children. 


I  have  already  computed  the  charge  of 
nursing  a  beggar's  child  (in  which  list 
I  reckon  all  cottagers,  laborers,  and  four- 
fifths  of  the  farmers)  to  be  about  two 
shilling  per  annum,  rags  included;  and 
I  believe  no  gentleman  would  repine  to 
give  ten  shillings  for  the  carcass  of  a 
good  fat  child,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
will  make  four  dishes  of  excellent  nutri- 
tive meat,  when  he  hath  only  some  par- 
ticular friend  or  his  own  family  to  dine 
with  him.  Thus  the  squire  will  learn  to 
be  a  good  landlord,  and  grow  popular 
among  his  tenants;  the  mother  will  have 
eight  shillings  net  profit,  and  be  fit  for 
work  till  she  produces  another  child. 

Those  who  are  more  thrifty  (as  I  must 
confess  the  times  require)  may  flay  the 
carcass;  the  skin  of  which  artificially 
dressed  will  make  admirable  gloves  for 
ladies,  and  summer  boots  for  fine  gentle- 
men. 

As  to  our  city  of  Dublin,  shambles  may 
be  appointed  for  this  purpose  in  the  most 
convenient  parts  of  it,  and  butchers  we 
may  be  assured  will  not  be  wanting;  al- 
though I  rather  recommend  buying  the 
children  alive  than  dressing  them  hot 
from  the  knife  as  we  do  roasting  pigs. 


ESSAYS 


429 


A.  very  worthy  person,  a  true  lover  of 
his  country,  and  whose  virtues  I  highly 
esteem,  was  lately  pleased  in  discoursing 
on  this  matter  to  offer  a  refinement  upon 
my  scheme.  He  said  that  many  gentle- 
men of  this  kingdom,  having  of  late  de- 
stroyed their  deer,  he  conceived  that  the 
want  of  venison  might  be  well  supplied 
by  the  bodies  of  young  lads  and  maidens, 
not  exceeding  fourteen  years  of  age  nor 
under  twelve;  so  great  a  number  of  both 
sexes  in  every  country  being  now  ready 
to  starve  for  want  of  work  and  service; 
and  these  to  be  disposed  of  by  their  par- 
ents, if  alive,  or  otherwise  by  their  near- 
est relations.  But  with  due  deference  to 
so  excellent  a  friend  and  so  deserving  a 
patriot,  I  cannot  be  altogether  in  his 
sentiments;  for  as  to  the  males,  my 
American  acquaintance  assured  me,  from 
frequent  experience,  that  their  flesh  was 
generally  tough  and  lean,  like  that  of  our 
school-boys  by  continual  exercise,  and 
their  taste  disagreeable;  and  to  fatten 
them  would  not  answer  the  charge. 
Then  as  to  the  female,  it  would,  I  think, 
with  humble  submission  be  a  loss  to  the 
public,  because  they  soon  would  become 
breeders  themselves;  and  besides,  it  is  not 
improbable  that  some  scrupulous  people 
might  be  apt  to  censure  such  a  practice 
(although  indeed  very  unjustly),  as  a 
little  bordering  upon  cruelty;  which,  I 
confess,  hath  always  been  with  me  the 
strongest  objection  against  any  project, 
however  so  well  intended. 

But  in  order  to  justify  my  friend,  he 
confessed  that  this  expedient  was  put 
into  his  head  by  the  famous  Psalmanazar, 
a  native  of  the  island  Formosa,  who  came 
from  thence  to  London  above  twenty 
years  ago,  and  in  conversation  told  my 
friend,  that  in  his  country  when  any 
young  person  happened  to  be  put  to  death, 
the  executioner  sold  the  carcass  to  per- 
sons of  quality  as  a  prime  dainty;  and 
that  in  his  time  the  body  of  a  plump 
girl  of  fifteen,  who  was  crucified  for  an 
attempt  to  poison  the  emperor,  was  sold 
to  his  imperial  majesty's  prime  minister 
of  state,  and  other  great  mandarins  of 
the  court,  in  joints  from  the  gibbet, 


at  four  hundred  crowns.  Neither  indeed 
can  I  deny,  that  if  the  same  use  were 
made  of  several  plump  young  girls  hi 
this  town,  who  without  one  single  groat 
to  their  fortunes  cannot  stir  abroad 
without  a  chair,  and  appear  at  playhouse 
and  assemblies  hi  foreign  fineries  which 
they  never  will  pay  for,  the  kingdom 
would  not  be  the  worse. 

Some  persons  of  a  desponding  spirit 
are  in  great  concern  about  that  vast 
number  of  poor  people,  who  are  aged, 
diseased,  or  maimed,  and  I  have  been 
desired  to  employ  my  thoughts  what 
course  may  be  taken  to  ease  the  nation 
of  so  grievous  an  encumbrance.  But  I  am 
not  in  the  least  pain  upon  that  matter, 
because  it  is  very  well  known  that  they 
are  every  day  dying  and  rotting  by  cold 
and  famine,  and  filth  and  vermin,  as  fast 
as  can  be  reasonably  expected.  And  as 
to  the  young  laborers,  they  are  now  in  as 
hopeful  a  condition;  they  cannot  get 
work,  and  consequently  pine  away  for 
want  of  nourishment,  to  a  degree  that  if 
at  any  time  they  are  accidentally  hired 
to  common  labor,  they  have  not  strength 
to  perform  it;  and  thus  the  country  and 
themselves  are  happily  delivered  from  the 
evils  to  come. 

I  have  too  long  digressed,  and  therefore 
shall  return  to  my  subject.  I  think  the 
advantages  by  the  proposal  which  I  have 
made  are  obvious  and  many,  as  well  as 
of  the  highest  importance. 

For  first,  as  I  have  already  observed, 
it  would  greatly  lessen  the  number  of 
papists,  with  whom  we  are  yearly  over- 
run, being  the  principal  breeders  of  the 
nation  as  well  as  our  most  dangerous 
enemies;  and  who  stay  at  home  on  pur- 
pose with  a  design  to  deliver  the  king- 
dom to  the  pretender,  hoping  to  take  their 
advantage  by  the  absence  of  so  many 
good  protestants,  who  have  chosen  rather 
to  leave  their  country  than  stay  at  home 
and  pay  tithes  against  their  conscience 
to  an  episcopal  curate. 

Secondly,  The  poorer  tenants  will  have 
something  valuable  of  their  own,  which 
by  law  may  be  made  liable  to  distress 
and  help  to  pay  their  landlord's  rent, 


43° 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


their  corn  and  cattle  being  "already  seized, 
and  money  a  thing  unknown. 

Thirdly,  Whereas  the  maintenance  of 
an  hundred  thousand  children,  from  two 
years  old  and  upward,  cannot  be  com- 
puted at  less  than  ten  shillings  a-piece 
per  annum,  the  nation's  stock  will  be 
thereby  increased  fifty  thousand  pounds 
per  annum,  beside  the  profit  of  a  new 
dish  introduced  to  the  tables  of  all  gentle- 
men of  fortune  in  the  kingdom  who  have 
any  refinement  in  taste.  And  the  money 
will  circulate  among  ourselves,  the  goods 
being  entirely  of  our  own  growth  and 
manufacture. 

Fourthly,  The  constant  breeders,  beside 
the  gain  of  eight  shillings  sterling  per 
annum  by  the  sale  of  their  children,  will 
be  rid  of  the  charge  of  maintaining  them 
after  the  first  year. 

Fifthly,  This  food  would  likewise  bring 
great  custom  to  taverns;  where  the  vint- 
ners will  certainly  be  so  prudent  as  to 
procure  the  best  receipts  for  dressing  it 
to  perfection,  and  consequently  have 
their  houses  frequented  by  all  the  fine 
gentlemen,  who  justly  value  themselves 
upon  their  knowledge  in  good  eating: 
and  a  skilful  cook,  who  understands  how 
to  oblige  his  guests,  will  contrive  to  make 
it  as  expensive  as  they  please. 

Sixthly,  This  would  be  a  great  induce- 
ment to  marriage,  which  all  wise  nations 
have  either  encouraged  by  rewards  or 
enforced  by  laws  and  penalties.  It  would 
increase  the  care  and  tenderness  of 
mothers  toward  their  children,  when 
they  were  sure  of  a  settlement  for  life 
to  the  poor  babes,  provided  in  some  sort 
by  the  public,  to  their  annual  profit  in- 
stead of  expense.  We  should  see  an 
honest  emulation  among  the  married 
women,  which  of  them  could  bring  the 
fattest  child  to  the  market 

Many  other  advantages  might  be  enu- 
merated. For  instance,  the  addition  of 
some  thousand  carcasses  in  our  exporta- 
tion of  barreled  beef,  the  propagation  of 
swine's  flesh,  and  improvement  in  the  art 
of  making  good  bacon,  so  much  wanted 
among  us  by  the  great  destruction  of  pigs, 
too  frequent  at  our  tables;  which  are  no 


way  comparable  in  taste  or  magnificence 
to  a  well-grown,  fat,  yearling  child,  which 
roasted  whole  will  make  a  considerable 
figure  at  a  lord  mayor's  feast  or  any  other 
public  entertainment.  But  this  and  many 
others  I  omit,  being  studious  of  brevity. 

Supposing  that  one  thousand  families 
in  this  city  would  be  constant  customers 
for  infants'  flesh,  beside  others  who  might 
have  it  at  merry-meetings,  particularly 
weddings  and  christenings,  I  compute  that 
Dublin  would  take  off  annually  about 
twenty  thousand  carcasses;  and  the  rest 
of  the  kingdom  (where  probably  they  will 
be  sold  somewhat  cheaper)  the  remaining 
eighty  thousand. 

I  can  think  of  no  one  objection  that 
will  possibly  be  raised  against  this  pro- 
posal, unless  it  should  be  urged  that  the 
number  of  people  will  be  thereby  much 
lessened  in  the  kingdom.  This  I  freely 
own,  and  was  indeed  one  principal  de- 
sign in  offering  it  to  the  world.  I  desire 
the  reader  will  observe,  that  I  calculate 
my  remedy  for  this  one  individual  king- 
dom of  Ireland  and  for  no  other  that  evei 
was,  is,  or  I  think  ever  can  be  upon  earth. 
Therefore  let  no  man  talk  to  me  of  other 
expedients:  of  taxing  our  absentees  at 
five  shillings  a  pound;  of  using  neither 
clothes  nor  household  furniture  except 
what  is  of  our  own  growth  and  manu- 
facture; of  utterly  rejecting  the  materials 
and  instruments  that  promote  foreign 
luxury;  of  curing  the  expensiveness  of 
pride,  vanity,  idleness,  and  gaming  in  our 
women;  of  introducing  a  vein  of  parsi- 
mony, prudence,  and  temperance;  of 
learning  to  love  our  country,  wherein  we 
differ  even  from  Laplanders  and  the 
inhabitants  of  Topinamboo;  of  quitting 
our  animosities  and  factions,  nor  act  any 
longer  like  the  Jews,  who  were  murdering 
one  another  at  the  very  moment  their  city 
was  taken;  of  being  a  little  cautious  not 
to  sell  our  country  and  conscience  for 
nothing;  of  teaching  landlords  to  have 
at  least  one  degree  of  mercy  toward  their 
tenants;  lastly,  of  putting  a  spirit  of 
honesty,  industry,  and  skill  into  our  shop- 
keepers; who,  if  a  resolution  could  now 
be  taken  to  buy  only  our  native  goods, 


ESSAYS 


would  immediately  unite  to  cheat  and 
exact  upon  us  in  the  price,  the  measure, 
and  the  goodness,  nor  could  ever  yet  be 
brought  to  make  one  fair  proposal  of  just 
dealing,  though  often  and  earnestly  in- 
vited to  it. 

Therefore  I  repeat,  let  no  man  talk 
to  me  of  these  and  the  like  expedients,  till 
he  hath  at  least  some  glimpse  of  hope  that 
there  will  be  ever  some  hearty  and  sincere 
attempt  to  put  them  in  practice. 

But  as  to  myself,  having  been  wearied 
out  for  many  years  with  offering  vain, 
idle,  visionary  thoughts,  and  at  length 
utterly  despairing  of  success  I  fortunately 
fell  upon  this  proposal;  which,  as  it  is 
wholly  new,  so  it  hath  something  solid 
and  real,  of  no  expense  and  little  trouble, 
full  in  our  own  power,  and  whereby  we 
can  incur  no  danger  in  disobliging  Eng- 
land. For  this  kind  of  commodity  will 
not  bear  exportation,  the  flesh  being  of 
too  tender  a  consistence  to  admit  a  long 
continuance  in  salt,  although  perhaps  I 
could  name  a  country  which  would  be 
glad  to  eat  up  our  whole  nation  without 
it. 

After  all,  I  am  not  so  violently  bent 
upon  my  own  opinion  as  to  reject  any 
offer  proposed  by  wise  men,  which  shall 
be  found  equally  innocent,  cheap,  easy, 
and  effectual.  But  before  something  of 
that  kind  shall  be  advanced  in  contradic- 
tion to  my  scheme,  and  offering  a  better, 
I  desire  the  author  or  authors  will  be 
pleased  maturely  to  consider  two  points. 
First,  as  things  now  stand,  how  they  will 
be  able  to  find  food  and  raiment  for  an 
hundred  thousand  useless  mouths  and 


backs.  And  secondly,  there  being  a 
round  million  of  creatures  in  human 
figure  throughout  this  kingdom,  whose 
whole  subsistence  put  into  a  common 
stock  would  leave  them  in  debt  two  mil- 
lions of  pounds  sterling,  adding  those  who 
are  beggars  by  profession  to  the  bulk  of 
farmers,  cottagers,  and  laborers,  with 
their  wives  and  children  who  are  beggars 
in  effect:  I  desire  those  politicians  who 
dislike  my  overture,  and  may  perhaps  be 
so  bold  as  to  attempt  an  answer,  that 
they  will  first  ask  the  parents  of  these 
mortals,  whether  they  would  not  at  this 
day  think  it  a  great  happiness  to  have 
been  sold  for  food  at  a  year  old  in  the 
manner  I  prescribe,  and  thereby  have 
avoided  such  a  perpetual  scene  of  mis- 
fortunes as  they  have  since  gone  through 
by  the  oppression  of  landlords,  the  im- 
possibility of  paying  rent  without  money 
or  trade,  the  want  of  common  sustenance, 
with  neither  house  nor  clothes  to  cover 
them  from  the  inclemencies  of  the  weather, 
and  the  most  inevitable  prospect  of  en- 
tailing the  like  or  greater  miseries  upon 
their  breed  forever. 

I  profess,  in  the  sincerity  of  my  heart, 
that  I  have  not  the  least  personal  interest 
in  endeavoring  to  promote  this  necessary 
work,  having  no  other  motive  than  the 
public  good  of  my  country,  by  advancing 
our  trade,  providing  for  infants,  reliev- 
ing the  poor,  and  giving  some  pleasure 
to  the  rich.  I  have  no  children  by  which 
I  can  propose  to  get  a  single  penny;  the 
youngest  being  nine  years  old,  and  my 
wife  past  child-bearing. 

(1729) 


43  2 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  (1672-1719) 

Wit!  «*rk»  pcrindirals,  the  Taller (1709-1711),  and  the  Spectator  (1711-1712),  the  familiar  essay 
became  fixed  in  English  literature  as  one  of  the  principal  types.  The  essayists  who  accomplished  this 
result  were  Swift's  friends,  Richard  Steele  and  Joseph  Addison.  Avowedly  writing  to  edify  their  readers, 
they  nevertheless  captivated  the  town.  Though  moralists,  they  were  yet  wits  and  men  of  the  world. 

Addison  is  of  the  two  the  more  polished  and  brilliant  in  style.    This  essay  gives  in  his  own  words 
his  purpose  in  the  Spectator  papers. 


THE  OBJECT  OF  THE  SPECTATOR 

Non  aliter  quant  qui  adverso  vix  flumine  lembum 
Remigiis  subigit:  si  brachia  forte  remisit, 
Atque  ilium  in  prceceps  prono  rapit  alveus  amni. 

VIRG. 

So  the  boat's  brawny  crew  the  current  stem, 
And,  slow  advancing,  struggle  with  the  stieam: 
But  if  they  slack  their  hands,  or  cease  to  strive, 
Then  down  the  flood  with  headlong  haste  they  drive. 

DRYDEN. 

IT  is  with  much  satisfaction  that  I  hear 
this  great  city  inquiring  day  by  day  after 
these  my  papers,  and  receiving  my  morn- 
ing lectures  with  a  becoming  seriousness 
and  attention.  My  publisher  tells  me 
that  there  are  already  three  thousand  of 
them  distributed  every  day;  so  that  if  I 
allow  twenty  readers  to  every  paper, 
which  I  look  upon  as  a  modest  computa- 
tion, I  may  reckon  about  threescore 
thousand  disciples  in  London  and  West- 
minster, who  I  hope  will  take  care  to  dis- 
tinguish themselves  from  the  thoughtless 
herd  of  their  ignorant  and  unattentive 
brethren.  Since  I  have  raised  to  myself 
so  great  an  audience,  I  shall  spare  no 
pains  to  make  their  instruction  agreeable, 
and  their  diversion  useful.  For  which 
reasons  I  shall  endeavor  to  enliven  mo- 
rality with  wit,  and  to  temper  wit  with 
morality,  that  my  readers  may,  if  possible, 
both  ways  find  their  account  in  the  specula- 
tion of  the  day.  And  to  the  end  that  their 
virtue  and  discretion  may  not  be  short, 
transient,  intermitting  starts  of  thought,  I 
have  resolved  to  refresh  their  memories 
from  day  to  day,  till  I  have  recovered  them 
out  of  that  desperate  state  of  vice  and 
folly  into  which  the  age  is  fallen.  The 
mind  that  lies  fallow  but  a  single  day, 
sprouts  up  in  follies  that  are  only  to  be 
killed  by  a  constant  and  assiduous  culture. 
It  was  said  of  Socrates  that  he  brought 
philosophy  down  from  heaven,  to  inhabit 


among  men;  and  I  shall  be  ambitious  to 
have  it  said  of  me,  that  I  have  brought 
philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libraries, 
schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs 
and  assemblies,  at  tea-tables,  and  in 
coffee-houses. 

I -would,  therefore,  in  a  very  particular 
manner,  recommend  these  my  speculation? 
to  all  well-regulated  families,  that  set 
apart  an  hour  in  every  morning  for  tea 
and  bread  and  butter;  and  would  earnestly 
advise  them  for  their  good,  to  order  this 
paper  to  be  punctually  served  up,  and  to 
be  looked  upon  as  a  part  of  the  tea- 
equipage. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes,  that  a  well 
written  book,  compared  with  its  rivals 
and  antagonists,  is  like  Moses's  serpent, 
that  immediately  swallowed  up  and  de- 
voured those  of  the  Egyptians.  I  shall 
not  be  so  vain  as  to  think,  that  where  the 
Spectator  appears,  the  other  public  prints 
will  vanish;  but  shall  leave  it  to  my  read- 
er's consideration,  whether  it  is  not  much 
better  to  be  let  into  the  knowledge  of 
one's  self,  than  to  hear  what  passes  in 
Muscovy  or  Poland;  and  to  amuse  our- 
selves with  such  writings  as  tend  to  the 
wearing  out  of  ignorance,  passion,  and 
prejudice,  than  such  as  naturally  conduce 
to  inflame  hatreds,  and  make  enmities 
irreconcilable. 

In  the  next  place,  I  would  recommend 
this  paper  to  the  daily  perusal  of  those 
gentlemen  whom  I  cannot  but  consider 
as  my  good  brothers  and  allies,  I  mean  the 
fraternity  of  spectators,  who  live  in  the 
world  without  having  anything  to  do  in  it; 
and  either  by  the  affluence  of  their  fortunes, 
or  laziness  of  their  dispositions,  have  no 
other  business  with  the  rest  of  mankind 
but  to  look  upon  them.  Under  this  class 
of  men  are  comprehended  all  contem 
plative  tradesmen,  titular  physicians,  Fel- 


ESSAYS 


433 


lows  of  the  Royal  Society,  Templars 
that  are  not  given  to  be  contentious,  and 
statesmen  that  are  out  of  business;  La 
short,  every  one  that  considers  the 
world  as  a  theater,  and  desires  to  form  a 
right  judgment  of  those  who  are  the  actors 
on  it. 

There  is  another  set  of  men  that  I  must 
likewise  lay  a  claim  to,  whom  I  have  lately 
called  the  blanks  of  society,  as  being  alto- 
gether unfurnished  with  ideas,  till  the  busi- 
ness and  conversation  of  the  day  has  sup- 
plied them.  I  have  often  considered  these 
poor  souls  with  an  eye  of  great  commisera- 
tion, when  I  have  heard  them  asking  the 
first  man  they  have  met  with,  whether 
there  was  any  news  stirring,  and,  by  that 
means,  gathering  together  materials  for 
thinking.  These  needy  persons  do  not 
know  what  to  talk  of  till  about  twelve 
o'clock  hi  the  morning;  for,  by  that  time, 
they  are  pretty  good  judges  of  the  weather, 
know  which  way  the  wind  sits,  and 
whether  the  Dutch  mail  be  come  in.  As 
they  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  man  they 
meet,  and  are  grave  or  impertinent  all 
the  day  long,  according  to  the  notions 
which  they  have  imbibed  in  the  morning, 
I  would  earnestly  entreat  them  not  to  stir 
out  of  their  chambers  till  they  have  read 
this  paper,  and  do  promise  them  that  I  will 
daily  instil  into  them  such  sound  and  whole- 
some sentiments,  as  shall  have  a  good 
effect  on  their  conversation  for  the  ensuing 
twelve  hours. 

But  there  are  none  to  whom  this  paper 
will  be  more  useful  than  to  the  female 
world.  I  have  often  thought  there  has 
not  been  sufficient  pains  taken  hi  finding 
out  proper  employments  and  diversions 
for  the  fair  ones.  Their  amusements 
seem  contrived  for  them,  rather  as  they 
are  women,  than  as  they  are  reasonable 
creatures,  and  are  more  adapted  to  the 
sex  than  to  the  species.  The  toilet  is 
their  great  scene  of  business,  and  the  right 
adjusting  of  their  hair  the  principal  em- 
ployment of  their  lives.  The  sorting  of  a 
suit  of  ribbons  is  reckoned  a  very  good 
morning's  work;  and  if  they  make  an 
excursion  to  a  mercer's  or  a  toy-shop,  so 
£ieat  a  fatigue  makes  them  unfit  for  any- 


thing else  all  the  day  after.  Their  more 
serious  occupations  are  sewing  and  em- 
broidery, and  their  greatest  drudgery  the 
preparation  of  jellies  and  sweet-meats. 
This  I  say,  is  the  state  of  ordinary  women ; 
though  I  know  there  are  multitudes  of 
those  of  a  more  elevated  life  and  conver- 
sation, that  move  in  an  exalted  sphere  of 
knowledge  and  virtue,  that  join  all  the 
beauties  of  the  mind  to  the  ornaments  of 
dress,  and  inspire  a  kind  of  awe  and  re- 
spect, as  well  as  love,  into  their  male  be- 
holders. I  hope  to  increase  the  number  of 
these  by  publishing  this  daily  paper, 
which  I  shall  always  endeavor  to  make  an 
innocent,  if  not  an  improving  entertain- 
ment, and  by  that  means  at  least  divert 
the  minds  of  my  female  readers  from 
greater  trifles.  At  the  same  time,  as  I 
would  fain  give  some  finishing  touches  to 
those  which  are  already  the  most  beautiful 
pieces  in  human  nature,  I  shall  endeavor 
to  point  out  all  those  imperfections  that 
are  the  blemishes,  as  well  as  those  virtues 
which  are  the  embellishments  of  the  sex. 
In  the  meanwhile  I  hope  these  my  gentle 
readers,  who  have  so  much  time  on  their 
hands,  will  not  grudge  throwing  away  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  day  on  this  paper, 
since  they  may  do  it  without  any  hin- 
drance to  business. 

I  know  several  of  my  friends  and  well- 
wishers  are  in  great  pain  for  me,  lest  I 
should  not  be  able  to  keep  up  the  spirit  of 
a  paper  which  I  oblige  myself  to  furnish 
every  day;  but  to  make  them  easy  hi  this 
particular,  I  will  promise  them  faith- 
fully to  give  it  over  as  soon  as  I  grow  dull. 
This  I  know  will  be  a  matter  of  great 
raillery  to  the  small  wits;  who  will  fre- 
quently put  me  in  mind  of  my  promise, 
desire  me  to  keep  my  word,  assure  me 
that  it  is  high  time  to  give  over,  with 
many  other  little  pleasantries  of  the  like 
nature,  which  men  of  a  little  smart  gen- 
ius cannot  forbear  throwing  out  against 
their  best  friends,  when  they  have  such 
a  handle  given  them  of  being  witty.  But 
let  them  remember  that  I  do  hereby 
enter  my  caveat  against  this  piece  of 
raillery. 

(1711) 


434 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


THOUGHTS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

Pallida  mors  ctquo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabcrnas 

Rrgumque  turres.     0  beat*  sexti, 
Vita  summa  brevis  spcm  nos  vetat  inchoare  longam. 

Jam  tc  piemet  nox,  fabukeque  manes, 
Et  domus  exilis  Plutonic HOR. 

With  equal  fool,  rich  friend,  impartial  fate 
Knocks  at  the  cottage,  and  the  palace  gate: 

Life's  span  forbids  thee  to  extend  thy  cares, 
And  stretch  thy  hopes  beyond  thy  years: 

Night  soon  will  seize,  and  you  must  quickly  go 
To  story'd  ghosts,  and  Pluto's  house  below. 

CREECH. 

WHEN  I  am  in  a  serious  humor,  I  very 
often  walk  by  myself  in  Westminster 
Abbey;  where  the  gloominess  of  the  place, 
and  the  use  to  which  it  is  applied,  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  building,  and  the  condi- 
tion of  the  people  who  lie  in  it,  are  apt  to 
fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  of  melancholy, 
or  rather  thoughtfulness,  that  is  not  dis- 
agreeable. I  yesterday  passed  a  whole 
afternoon  in  the  churchyard,  the  cloisters, 
and  the  church,  amusing  myself  with  the 
tombstones  and  inscriptions  that  I  met 
with  in  those  several  regions  of  the  dead. 
Most  of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the 
buried  person,  but  that  he  was  born  upon 
one  day,  and  died  upon  another:  the  whole 
history  of  his  life  being  comprehended  in 
those  two  circumstances,  that  are  com- 
mon to  all  mankind.  I  could  not  but 
look  upon  these  registers  of  existence, 
whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  land  of 
satire  upon  the  departed  persons;  who  had 
left  no  other  memorial  of  them  but  that 
they  were  born  and  that  they  died.  They 
put  me  in  mind  of  several  persons  men- 
tioned in  the  battles  of  heroic  poems,  who 
have  sounding  names  given  them,  for  no 
other  reason  but  that  they  may  be  killed, 
and  are  celebrated  for  nothing  but  being 
knocked  on  the  head.  The  life  of  these 
men  is  finely  described  in  holy  writ  by 
"the  path  of  an  arrow,"  which  is  immed- 
iately closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  enter- 
tained myself  with  the  digging  of  a  grave; 
and  saw  in  every  shovelful  of  it  that  was 
thrown  up,  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull 
intermixed  with  a  kind  of  fresh  moulder- 
ing earth,  that  some  time  or  other  had  a 


place  in  the  composition  of  a  human 
body.  Upon  this  I  began  to  consider 
with  myself  what  innumerable  multitudes 
of  people  lay  confused  together  under  the 
pavement  of  that  ancient  cathedral; 
how  men  and  women,  friends  and  ene- 
mies, priests  and  soldiers,  monks  and  preb- 
endaries, were  crumbled  amongst  one 
another,  and  blended  together  in  the  same 
common  mass;  how  beauty,  strength,  and 
youth,  with  old  age,  weakness,  and  de- 
formity, lay  undistinguished  in  the  same 
promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great 
magazine  of  mortality,  as  it  were  in  the 
lump,  I  examined  it  more  particularly 
by  the  accounts  which  I  found  on  several 
of  the  monuments  which  are  raised  in 
every  quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric. 
Some  of  them  were  covered  with  saucy 
extravagant  epitaphs,  that,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible for  the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted 
with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the  praises 
which  his  friends  have  bestowed  upon  him. 
There  are  others  so  excessively  modest, 
that  they  deliver  the  character  of  the 
person  departed  in  Greek  or  Hebrew, 
and  by  that  means  are  not  understood 
once  in  a  twelvemonth.  In  the  poetical 
quarter,  I  found  there  were  poets  who  had 
no  monuments,  and  monuments  which 
had  no  poets.  I  observed  indeed,  that  the 
present  war  had  filled  the  church  with 
many  of  these  uninhabited  monuments, 
which  had  been  erected  to  the  memory  of 
persons  whose  bodies  were  perhaps  buried 
in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or  in  the  bosom 
of  the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted 
with  several  modern  epitaphs,  which  are 
written  with  great  elegance  of  expression 
and  justness  of  thought,  and  therefore  do 
honor  to  the  living  as  well  as  to  the  dead. 
As  a  foreigner  is  very  apt  to  conceive  an 
idea  of  the  ignorance  or  the  politeness  of 
a  nation,  from  the  turn  of  their  public 
monuments  and  inscriptions,  they  should 
be  submitted  to  the  perusal  of  men  of 
learning  and  genius,  before  they  are  put 
in  execution.  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel's  mon- 
ument has  very  often  given  me  great 
offense:  instead  of  the  brave  rough  Eng- 


ESSAYS 


435 


lish  Admiral,  which  was  the  distinguishing 
character  of  that  plain  gallant  man,  he  is 
represented  on  his  tomb  by  the  figure  of 
a  beau,  dressed  in  a  long  periwig,  and  re- 
posing himself  upon  velvet  cushions  under 
a  canopy  of  state.  The  inscription  is 
answerable  to  the  monument;  for  instead 
of  celebrating  the  many  remarkable  ac- 
tions he  had  performed  in  the  service  of  his 
country,  it  acquaints  us  only  with  the 
manner  of  his  death,  in  which  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  reap  any  honor.  The 
Dutch,  whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for 
want  of  genius,  show  an  infinitely  greater 
taste  of  antiquity  and  politeness  in  their 
buildings  and  works  of  this  nature,  than 
what  we  meet  with  in  those  of  our  own 
country.  The  monuments  of  their  ad- 
mirals, which  have  been  erected  at  the 
public  expense,  represent  them  like  them- 
selves; and  are  adorned  with  rostral  crowns 
and  naval  ornaments,  with  beautiful  fes- 
toons of  seaweed,  shells,  and  coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have 
left  the  repository  of  our  English  kings  for 
the  contemplation  of  another  day,  when 
I  shall  find  my  mind  disposed  for  so  ser- 
ious an  amusement.  I  know  that  enter- 
tainments of  this  nature  are  apt  to  raise 
dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in  timorous 
minds  and  gloomy  imaginations;  but  for 
my  own  part,  though  I  am  always  ser- 
ious, I  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  mel- 
ancholy; and  can  therefore  take  a  view 
of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn  scenes, 
with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay 
and  delightful  ones.  By  this  means  I  can 
improve  myself  with  those  objects  which 
others  consider  with  terror.  When  I 
look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every 
emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me;  when  I  read 
the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  inor- 
dinate desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet  with 
the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tombstone, 
my  heart  melts  with  compassion;  when  I 
see  the  tomb  of  the  parents  themselves,  I 
consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those 
whom  we  must  quickly  follow;  when  I  see 
kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them, 
when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by 
side,  or  the  holy  men  that  divided  the 
world  with  their  contests  and  disputes,  I 


reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on 
the  little  competitions,  factions,  and  de- 
bates of  mankind.  When  I  read  the  several 
dates  on  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died  yes- 
terday, and  some  six  hundred  years  ago, 
I  consider  that  great  day  when  we  shall 
all  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make  our 
appearance  together.  (1711) 

THE  FINE  LADY'S  JOURNAL 

.    .    .    M odo  vlr,  modo  famina.    Vrnc. 
Sometimes  a  man,  sometimes  a  woman. 

THE  journal  with  which  I  presented  my 
reader  on  Tuesday  last,  has  brought  me 
in  several  letters,  with  accounts  of  many 
private  lives  cast  into  that  form.  I  have 
the  Rake's  Journal,  the  Sot's  Journal, 
and  among  several  others  a  very  curious 
piece,  entitled — "The  Journal  of  a  Mo- 
hock." By  these  instances  I  find  that 
the  intention  of  my  last  Tuesday's  paper 
has  been  mistaken  by  many  of  my  read- 
ers. I  did  not  design  so  much  to  expose 
vice  as  idleness,  and  aimed  at  those  per- 
sons who  pass  away  their  time  rather  in 
trifle  and  impertinence,  than  in  crimes 
and  immoralities.  Offenses  of  this  latter 
kind  are  not  to  be  dallied  with,  or  treated 
in  so  ludicrous  a  manner.  In  short,  my 
journal  only  holds  up  folly  to  the  light, 
and  shows  the  disagreeableness  of  such 
actions  as  are  indifferent  in  themselves, 
and  blamable  only  as  they  proceed  from 
creatures  endowed  with  reason. 

My  following  correspondent,  who  calls 
herself  Clarinda,  is  such  a  journalist  as  I 
require:  she  seems  by  her  letter  to  be 
placed  in  a  modish  state  of  indifference 
between  vice  and  virtue,  and  to  be  sus- 
ceptible of  either,  were  there  proper 
pains  taken  with  her.  Had  her  journal 
been  filled  with  gallantries,  or  such  occur- 
rences as  had  shown  her  wholly  divested 
of  her  natural  innocence,  notwithstanding 
it  might  have  been  more  pleasing  to  -the 
generality  of  readers,  I  should  not  have 
published  it;  but  as  it  is  only  the  picture 
of  a  life  filled  with  a  fashionable  kind  of 
gaiety  and  laziness,  I  shall  set  down  five 
days  of  it,  as  I  have  received  it  from  the 
hand  of  my  fair  correspondent. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Dear  Mr.  Spectator, 

You  having  set  your  readers  an  exer- 
cise in  one  of  your  last  week's  papers, 
I  have  performed  mine  according  to  your 
orders,  and  herewith  s^nd  it  you  enclosed. 
You  must  know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  I  am 
a  maiden  lady  of  a  good  fortune,  who  have 
had  several  matches  offered  me  for  these 
ten  years  last  past,  and  have  at  present 
warm  applications  made  to  me  by  a  very 
pretty  fellow.  As  I  am  at  my  own  dis- 
posal, I  come  up  to  town  every  winter, 
and  pass  my  time  in  it  after  the  manner 
you  will  find  in  the  following  journal, 
which  I  begun  to  write  upon  the  very  day 
after  your  Spectator  upon  that  subject. 

Tuesday  night.  Could  not  go  to  sleep 
till  one  in  the  morning  for  thinking  of  my 
journal. 

Wednesday.  From  eight  till  ten. 
Drank  two  dishes  of  chocolate  in  bed,  and 
fell  asleep  after  them. 

From  ten  to  eleven.  Eat  a  slice  of 
bread  and  butter,  drank  a  dish  of  bohea, 
read  the  Spectator. 

From  eleven  to  one.  At  my  toilette, 
tried  a  new  head.  Gave  orders  for  Veny 
to  be  combed  and  washed.  Mem.  I  look 
best  in  blue. 

From  one  till  half  an  hour  after  two. 
Drove  to  the  Change.  Cheapened  a 
couple  of  fans. 

Till  four.  At  dinner.  Mem.  Mr. 
Froth  passed  by  in  his  new  liveries. 

From  four  to  six.  Dressed,  paid  a  visit 
to  old  Lady  Blithe  and  her  sister,  having 
before  heard  they  were  gone  out  of  town 
that  day. 

From  six  to  eleven.  At  Basset.  Mem. 
Never  set  again  upon  the  ace  of  diamonds. 

Thursday.  From  eleven  at  night  to 
eight  in  the  morning.  Dreamed  that  I 
punted  to  Mr.  Froth. 

From  eight  to  ten.  Chocolate.  Read 
two  acts  in  Aurengzebe  a-bed. 

From  ten  to  eleven.  Tea-table.  Read 
the  playbills.  Received  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Froth.  Mem.  Locked  it  up  in  my  strong 
box. 

Rest  of  the  morning.  Fontange,  the 
tire- woman,  her  account  of  my  Lady 
Blithe's  wash.  Broke  a  tooth  in  my  little 


tortoise  shell  comb.  Sent  Frank  to  know 
how  my  Lady  Hectic  rested  after  her 
monkey's  leaping  out  at  window.  Looked 
pale.  Fontange  tells  me  my  glass  is  not 
true.  Dressed  by  three. 

From  three  to  four.  Dinner  cold  before 
I  sat  down. 

From  four  to  eleven.  Saw  company, 
Mr.  Froth's  opinion  of  Milton.  Hia 
account  of  the  Mohocks.  His  fancy  for 
a  pin-cushion.  Picture  in  the  lid  of  his 
snuff-box.  Old  Lady  Faddle  promises 
me  her  woman  to  cut  my  hair.  Lost  five 
guineas  at  crimp. 

Twelve  o'clock  at  night.    Went  to  bed. 

Friday.  Eight  in  the  morning.  A-bed. 
Read  over  all  Mr.  Froth's  letters. 

Ten  o'clock.  Staid  within  all  day,  not 
at  home. 

From  ten  to  twelve.  In  conference 
with  my  mantua-maker.  Sorted  a  suit 
of  ribbons.  Broke  my  blue  china  cup. 

From  twelve  to  one.  Shut  myself  up 
in  my  chamber,  practised  Lady  Betty 
Modely's  skuttle. 

One  in  the  afternoon.  Called  for  my 
flowered  handkerchief.  Worked  half  a 
violet-leaf  in  it.  Eyes  ached  and  head 
out  of  order.  Threw  by  my  work,  and 
read  over  the  remaining  part  of  Aureng- 
zebe. 

From  three  to  four.    Dined. 

From  four  to  twelve.  Changed  my 
mind,  dressed,  went  abroad,  and  played 
at  crimp  till  midnight.  Found  Mrs.  Spite- 
ly  at  home.  Conversation:  Mrs.  Bril- 
liant's necklace  false  stones.  Old  Lady 
Loveday  going  to  be  married  to  a  young 
fellow  that  is  not  worth  a  groat.  Miss 
Prue  gone  into  the  country.  Tom  Town- 
ley  has  red  hair.  Mem.  Mrs.  Spitely 
whispered  in  my  ear  that  she  had  some- 
thing to  tell  me  about  Mr.  Froth,  I  am 
sure  it  is  not  true. 

Between  twelve  and  one.  Dreamed 
that  Mr.  Froth  lay  at  my  feet,  and  called 
me  Indamora. 

Saturday.  Rose  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Sat  down  to  my  toilette. 

From  eight  to  nine.  Shifted  a  patch 
for  half  an  hour  before  I  could  determine 
it.  Fixed  it  above  my  left  eyebrow. 


ESSAYS 


437 


From  nine  to  twelve.  Drank  my  tea. 
and  dressed. 

From  twelve  to  two.  At  chapel.  A 
great  deal  of  good  company.  Mem. 
The  third  air  in  the  new  opera.  Lady 
Blithe  dressed  frightfully. 

From  three  to  four.  Dined.  Miss 
Kitty  called  upon  me  to  go  to  the  opera, 
before  I  was  risen  from  table. 

From  dinner  to  six.  Drank  tea. 
Turned  off  a  footman  for  being  rude  to 
Veny. 

Six  o'clock.  Went  to  the  opera.  I  did 
not  see  Mr.  Froth  till  the  beginning  of  the 
second  act.  Mr.  Froth  talked  to  a  gentle- 
man in  a  black  wig.  Bowed  to  a  lady  hi 
the  front  box.  Mr.  Froth  and  his  friend 
clapped  Nicolini  hi  the  third  act.  Mr. 
Froth  cried  out  Ancora.  Mr.  Froth  led 
me  to  my  chair.  I  think  he  squeezed  my 
hand. 

Eleven  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Mel- 
ancholy dreams.  Methought  Nicolini  said 
he  was  Mr.  Froth. 

Sunday.    Indisposed. 

Monday.  Eight  o'clock.  Waked  by 
Miss  Kitty.  Aurengzebe  lay  upon  the 
chair  by  me.  Kitty  repeated  without 
book  the  eight  best  lines  in  the  play. 
Went  in  our  mobs  to  the  dumb  man  ac- 
cording to  appointment.  Told  me  that 
my  lover's  name  began  with  a  G.  Mem. 
The  conjurer  was  within  a  letter  of  Mr. 
Froth's  name,  &c. 

Upon  looking  back  into  this  my  journal, 
I  find  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  whether 
I  pass  my  time  well  or  ill;  and  indeed 
never  thought  of  considering  how  I  did 


it  before  I  perused  your  speculation  upon 
that  subject.  I  scarce  find  a  single  action 
in  these  five  days  that  I  can  thoroughly 
approve  of,  except  the  working  upon  the 
violet-leaf,  which  I  am  resolved  to  finish 
the  first  day  I  am  at  leisure.  As  for  Mr. 
Froth  and  Veny,  I  did  not  think  they  took 
up  so  much  of  my  time  and  thoughts  as  I 
find  they  do  upon  my  journal.  The 
latter  of  them  I  will  turn  off,  if  you  insist 
upon  it;  and  if  Mr.  Froth  does  not  bring 
matters  to  a  conclusion  very  suddenly,  I 
will  not  let  my  hie  run  away  in  a  dream. 
Your  humble  servant, 

Clarinda. 

To  resume  one  of  the  morals  of  my  first 
paper,  and  to  confirm  Clarinda  in  her  good 
inclinations,  I  would  have  her  consider 
what  a  pretty  figure  she  would  make 
among  posterity,  were  the  history  of  her 
whole  life  published  like  these  five  days 
of  it.  I  shall  conclude  my  paper  with  an 
epitaph  written  by  an  uncertain  author 
on  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  sister,  a  lady  who 
seems  to  have  been  of  a  temper  very  much 
different  from  that  of  Clarinda.  The 
last  thought  of  it  is  so  very  noble,  that  I 
dare  say  my  reader  will  pardon  me  the 
quotation. 

ON  THE  COUNTESS  DOWAGER  OF  PEMBROKE 

Underneath  this  marble  hearse 

Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 

Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother: 

Death,  ere  thou  hast  kitt'd  another, 

Fair  and  learned  and  good  as  she, 

Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thtt.         (1712) 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


EDMUND  BURKE  (1729-1797) 

Burke,  though  an  Irishman,  stands  as  the  greatest  political  thinker  who  has  written  in  the  English 
language.  Deeply  rooted  in  the  past  and  reverencing  all  that  England  had  attained  during  a  thousand 
years  of  growth,  he  feared  revolution  and  innovation  and  strove  to  uphold  the  traditional  order.  He 
opposed  the  French  Revolution  as  a  tearing  of  the  delicate  fabric  of  a  great  civilization  and  the  building 
of  a  new  structure  upon  a  foundation  of  sand,  yet,  because  he  believed  in  human  rights,  in  opposition  to 
all  forms  of  tyranny,  he  took  the  part  of  the  American  rebels  and  championed  the  cause  of  voiceless 
India  against  the  misrule  of  Warren  Hastings.  For  him  the  cause  of  India  became  the  cause  of  hu- 
i  philosophy,  setting  forth  the  principles  of  justice,  true  liberty,  and  free  govern- 
ment, is  of  supreme  importance  to  us  as  we  struggle  up  through  the  trying  period  of  reconstruction 
after  the  war  and  seek  to  establish  stable  foundations  for  the  democracy  of  the  future.  Withal,  these 
reflections  are  clothed  in  a  style  of  unsurpassed  richness  and  power. 


REFLECTIONS   ON   THE    REVOLUTION  IN 
FRANCE 

THE  REAL  RIGHTS  OF  MEN 

FAR  am  I  from  denying  in  theory,  full 
as  far  is  my  heart  from  withholding  in 
practice,  (if  I  were  of  power  to  give  or  to 
withhold,)  the  real  rights  of  men.  In 
denying  their  false  claims  of  right,  I  do 
not  mean  to  injure  those  which  are  real, 
and  are  such  as  their  pretended  rights 
would  totally  destroy.  If  civil  society 
be  made  for  the  advantage  of  man,  all  the 
advantages  for  which  it  is  made  become  his 
right.  It  is  an  institution  of  beneficence; 
and  law  itself  is  only  beneficence  acting 
by  a  rule.  Men  have  a  right  to  live  by 
that  rule;  they  have  a  right  to  do  justice, 
as  between  their  fellows,  whether  then* 
fellows  are  in  public  function  or  in  ordi- 
nary occupation.  They  have  a  right  to 
the  fruits  of  their  industry;  and  to  the 
means  of  making  their  industry  fruitful. 
They  have  a  right  to  the  acquisitions  of 
their  parents;  to  the  nourishment  and 
improvement  of  their  offspring;  to  in- 
struction in  life,  and  to  consolation  in 
death.  Whatever  each  man  can  separately 
do,  without  trespassing  upon  others,  he 
has  a  right  to  do  for  himself;  and  he  has  a 
right  to  a  fair  portion  of  all  which  society, 
with  all  its  combinations  of  skill  and  force, 
can  do  in  his  favor.  In  this  partnership 
all  men  have  equal  rights;  but  not  to 
equal  things.  He  that  has  but  five  shil- 
lings in  the  partnership,  has  as  good  a  right 
to  it,  as  he  that  has  five  hundred  pounds 
has  to  his  larger  proportion.  But  he  has 
not  a  right  to  an  equal  dividend  hi  the 


product  of  the  joint  stock;  and  as  to  the 
share  of  power,  authority,  and  direction 
which  each  individual  ought  to  have  in 
the  management  of  the  state,  that  I  must 
deny  to  be  amongst  the  direct  original 
rights  of  man  in  civil  society;  for  I  have 
in  my  contemplation  the  civil  social  man, 
and  no  other.  It  is  a  thing  to  be  settled 
by  convention. 

If  civil  society  be  the  offspring  of  con- 
vention, that  convention  must  be  its  law. 
That  convention  must  limit  and  modify 
all  the  descriptions  of  constitution  which 
are  formed  under  it.  Every  sort  of  leg- 
islative, judicial,  or  executory  power  are 
its  creatures.  They  can  have  no  being 
in  any  other  state  of  things;  and  how  can 
any  man  claim  under  the  conventions  of 
civil  society,  rights  which  do  not  so  much 
as  suppose  its  existence  ?  rights  whick  are 
absolutely  repugnant  to  it?  One  of  the 
first  motives  to  civil  society,  and  which 
becomes  one  of  its  fundamental  rules,  is, 
that  no  man  should  be  judge  in  his  own 
cause.  By  this  each  person  has  at  once 
divested  himself  of  the  first  fundamental 
right  of  uncovenanted  man,  that  is,  to 
judge  for  himself,  and  to  assert  his  own 
cause.  He  abdicates  all  right  to  be  his 
own  governor.  He  inclusively,  in  a  great 
measure,  abandons  the  right  of  self- 
defense,  the  first  law  of  nature.  Men 
cannot  enjoy  the  rights  of  an  uncivil  and 
of  a  civil  state  together.  That  he  may 
obtain  justice,  he  gives  up  his  right  of 
determining  what  it  is  in  points  the  most 
essential  to  him.  That  he  may  secure 
some  liberty,  he  makes  a  surrender  in 
trust  of  the  whole  of  it. 


ESSAYS 


439 


Government  is  not  made  in  virtue  of 
natural  rights,  which  may  and  do  exist 
in  total  independence  of  it;  and  exist  hi 
much  greater  clearness,  and  in  a  much 
greater  degree  of  abstract  perfection;  but 
their  abstract  perfection  is  their  practical 
defect.  By  having  a  right  to  everything 
they  want  everything.  Government  is  a 
contrivance  of  human  wisdom  to  provide 
for  human  wants.  Men  have  a  right  that 
these  wants  should  be  provided  for  by 
this  wisdom.  Among  these  wants  is  to 
be  reckoned  the  want,  out  of  civil  society, 
of  a  sufficient  restraint  upon  their  passions. 
Society  requires  not  only  that  the  pas- 
sions of  individuals  should  be  subjected, 
but  that  even  hi  the  mass  and  body,  as 
well  as  in  the  individuals,  the  inclinations 
of  men  should  frequently  be  thwarted, 
their  will  controlled,  and  their  passions 
brought  into  subjection.  This  can  only 
be  done  by  a  power  out  of  themselves;  and 
not,  in  the  exercise  of  its  function,  sub- 
ject to  that  will  and  to  those  passions 
which  it  is  its  office  to  bridle  and  subdue. 
In  this  sense  the  restraints  on  men,  as  well 
as  their  liberties,  are  to  be  reckoned 
amongst  their  rights.  But  as  the  liber- 
ties and  the  restrictions  vary  with  times 
and  Circumstances,  and  admit  of  infinite 
modifications,  they  cannot  be  settled  upon 
any  abstract  rule;  and  nothing  is  so  foolish 
as  to  discuss  them  upon  that  principle. 

The  moment  you  abate  anything  from 
the  full  rights  of  men,  each  to  govern  him- 
self, and  suffer  any  artificial,  positive 
limitation  upon  those  rights,  from  that 
moment  the  whole  organization  of  govern- 
ment becomes  a  consideration  of  conven- 
ience. This  it  is  which  makes  the  con- 
stitution of  a  state,  and  the  due  distribu- 
tion of  its  powers,  a  matter  of  the  most 
delicate  and  complicated  skill.  It  re- 
quires a  deep  knowledge  of  human  nature 
and  human  necessities,  and  of  the  things 
which  facilitate  or  obstruct  the  various 
ends,  which  are  to  be  pursued  by  the  mech- 
anism of  civil  institutions.  The  state 
is  to  have  recruits  to  its  strength,  and 
reanedies  to  its  distempers.  What  is 
the  use  of  discussing  a  man's  abstract 
reht  to  food  or  medicine?  The  ques- 


tion is  upon  the  method  of  procuring  and 
administering  them.  In  that  deliberation 
I  shall  always  advise  to  call  in  the  aid  of 
the  farmer  and  the  physician,  rather  than 
the  professor  of  metaphysics. 

The  science  of  constructing  a  common- 
wealth, or  renovating  it,  or  reforming  it, 
is,  like  every  other  experimental  science, 
not  to  be  taught  a  priori.  Nor  is  it  a 
short  experience  that  can  instruct  us  in 
that  practical  science;  because  the  real 
effects  of  moral  causes  are  not  always 
immediate;  but  that  which  in  the  first 
instance  is  prejudicial  may  be  excellent  in 
its  remoter  operation;  and  its  excellence 
may  arise  even  from  the  ill  effects  it  pro- 
duces in  the  beginning.  The  reverse  also 
happens:  and  very  plausible  schemes, 
with  very  pleasing  commencements,  have 
often  shameful  and  lamentable  conclusions. 
In  states  there  are  often  some  obscure  and 
almost  latent  causes,  things  which  appear 
at  first  view  of  little  moment,  on  which  a 
very  great  part  of  its  prosperity  or  adver- 
sity may  most  essentially  depend.  The 
science  of  government  being  therefore  so 
practical  in  itself,  and  intended  for  such 
practical  purposes,  a  matter  which  re- 
quires experience,  and  even  more  exper- 
ience than  any  person  can  gain  in  his 
whole  life,  however  sagacious  and  observ- 
ing he  may  be,  it  is  with  infinite  caution 
that  any  man  ought  to  venture  upon  pull- 
ing down  an  edifice,  which  has  answered 
in  any  tolerable  degree  for  ages  the  com- 
mon purposes  of  society,  or  on  building  it 
up  again,  without  having  models  and  pat- 
terns of  approved  utility  before  his  eyes. 

These  metaphysic  rights  entering  into 
common  life,  like  rays  of  light  which  pierce 
into  a  dense  medium,  are,  by  the  laws  of 
nature,  refracted  from  their  straight  line. 
Indeed  in  the  gross  and  complicated  mass 
of  human  passions  and  concerns,  the  prim- 
itive rights  of  men  undergo  such  a  variety 
of  refractions  and  reflections,  that  it  be- 
comes absurd  to  talk  of  them  as  if  they 
continued  in  the  simplicity  of  their  original 
direction.  The  nature  of  man  is  intri- 
cate; the  objects  of  society  are  of  ths 
greatest  possible  complexity :  and  therefore 
no  simple  disposition  or  direction  of  power 


440 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


can  be  suitable  either  to  man's  nature,  or 
to  the  quality  of  his  affairs.  When  I 
hear  the  simplicity  of  contrivance  aimed 
at  and  boasted  of  in  any  new  political 
constitutions,  I  am  at  no  loss  to  decide 
that  the  artificers  are  grossly  ignorant  of 
their  trade,  or  totally  negligent  of  their 
duty.  The  simple  governments  are  fun- 
damentally defective,  to  say  no  worse  of 
them.  If  you  were  to  contemplate  society 
in  but  one  point  of  view,  all  these  simple 
modes  of  polity  are  infinitely  captivating. 
In  effect  each  would  answer  its  single  end 
much  more  perfectly  than  the  more  com- 
plex is  able  to  attain  all  its  complex  pur- 
poses. But  it  is  better  that  the  whole 
should  be  imperfectly  and  anomalously 
answered  than  that,  while  some  parts  are 
provided  for  with  great  exactness,  others 
might  be  totally  neglected,  or  perhaps 
materially  injured,  by  the  over-care  of  a 
favorite  member. 

The  pretended  rights  of  these  theorists 
are  all  extremes:  and  in  proportion  as  they 
are  metaphysically  true,  they  are  morally 
and  politically  false.  The  rights  of  men 
are  in  a  sort  of  middle,  incapable  of  defini- 
tion, but  not  impossible  to  be  discerned. 
The  rights  of  men  in  governments  are 
their  advantages;  and  these  are  often  in 
balances  between  differences  of  good;  in 
compromises  sometimes  between  good  and 
evil,  and  sometimes  between  evil  and  evil. 
Political  reason  is  a  computing  principle; 
adding,  subtracting,  multiplying,  and 
dividing,  morally  and  not  metaphysically, 
or  mathematically,  true  moral  denomi- 
nations. 

By  these  theorists  the  right  of  the  people 
is  almost  always  sophistically  confounded 
with  their  power.  The  body  of  the  com- 
munity, whenever  it  can  come  to  act,  can 
meet  with  no  effectual  resistance;  but  till 
power  and  right  are  the  same,  the  whole 
body  of  them  has  no  right  inconsistent 
with  virtue,  and  the  first  of  all  virtues, 
prudence.  Men  have  no  right  to  what 
is  not  reasonable,  and  to  what  is  not  for 
their  benefit;  for  though  a  pleasant  writer 
said,  Liceat  perire  poetis,  when  one  of  them, 
in  cold  blood,  is  said  to  have  leaped  into 
the  flames  of  a  volcanic  revolution, 


Ardentem  frigidus  jEtnam  insiluit,  I  con- 
sider such  a  frolic  rather  as  an  unjustifi- 
able poetic  license,  than  as  one  of  the 
franchises  of  Parnassus;  and  whether  he 
were  poet,  or  divine,  or  politician,  that 
chose  to  exercise  this  kind  of  right,  I  thin). 
that  more  wise,  because  more  charitable 
thoughts  would  urge  me  rather  to  save 
the  man,  than  to  preserve  his  brazen 
slippers  as  the  monuments  of  his  folly. 

CHURCH  AND   STATE 

FIRST,  I  beg  leave  to  speak  of  our  church 
establishment,  which  is  the  first  of  our  prej- 
udices, not  a  prejudice  destitute  of  reason, 
but  involving  in  it  profound  and  extensive 
wisdom.  I  speak  of  it  first.  It  is  first, 
and  last,  and  midst  in  our  minds.  For, 
taking  ground  on  that  religious  system, 
of  which  we  are  now  in  possession,  we 
continue  to  act  on  the  early  received  and 
uniformly  continued  sense  of  mankind. 
That  sense  not  only,  like  a  wise  architect, 
hath  built  up  the  august  fabric  of  states, 
but  like  a  provident  proprietor,  to  preserve 
the  structure  from  profanation  and  ruin, 
as  a  sacred  temple  purged  from  all  the  im- 
purities of  fraud,  and  violence,  and  injus- 
tice, and  tyranny,  hath  solemnly  and  for- 
ever consecrated  the  commonwealth,  and 
all  that  officiate  in  it.  This  consecration 
is  made,  that  all  who  administer  in  the 
government  of  men,  in  which  they  stand 
in  the  person  of  God  himself,  should  have 
high  and  worthy  notions  of  their  function 
and  destination ;  that  their  hope  should  be 
full  of  immortality;  that  they  should  not 
look  to  the  paltry  pelf  of  the  moment,  nor 
to  the  temporary  and  transient  praise  of 
the  vulgar,  but  to  a  solid,  permanent  exis- 
tence, in  the  permanent  part  of  their 
nature,  and  to  a  permanent  fame  and 
glory,  in  the  example  they  leave  as  a  rich 
inheritance  to  the  world. 

Such  sublime  principles  ought  to  be  in- 
fused into  persons  of  exalted  situations; 
and  religious  establishments  provided,  that 
may  continually  revive  and  enforce  them. 
Every  sort  of  moral,  every  sort  of  civil, 
every  sort  of  politic  institution,  aiding  the 
rational  and  natural  ties  that  connect  the 


ESSAYS 


441 


human  understanding  and  affections  to  the 
divine,  are  not  more  than  necessary,  in 
order  to  build  up  that  wonderful  structure, 
Man;  whose  prerogative  it  is,  to  be  in  a 
great  degree  a  creature  of  his  own  making; 
and  who,  when  made  as  he  ought  to  be 
made,  is  destined  to  hold  no  trivial  place 
in  the  creation.  But  whenever  man  is  put 
over  men,  as  the  better  nature  ought  ever 
to  preside,  in  that  case  more  particularly, 
he  should  as  nearly  as  possible  be  approx- 
imated to  his  perfection. 

The  consecration  of  the  state,  by  a  state 
religious  establishment,  is  necessary  also 
to  operate  with  a  wholesome  awe  upon  free 
citizens;  because,  in  order  to  secure  their 
freedom,  they  must  enjoy  some  deter- 
minate portion  of  power.  To  them  there- 
fore a  religion  connected  with  the  state, 
and  with  their  duty  towards  it,  becomes 
even  more  necessary  than  in  such  societies, 
where  the  people,  by  the  terms  of  their 
subjection,  are  confined  to  private  senti- 
ments, and  the  management  of  their 
own  family  concerns.  All  persons  pos- 
sessing any  portion  of  power  ought  to  be 
strongly  and  awfully  impressed  with  an 
idea  that  they  act  in  trust:  and  that  they 
are  to  account  for  their  conduct  in  that 
trust  to  the  one  great  Master,  Author, 
and  Founder  of  society. 

This  principle  ought  even  to  be  more 
strongly  impressed  upon  the  minds  of  those 
who  compose  the  collective  sovereignty, 
than  upon  those  of  single  princes.  With- 
out instruments,  these  princes  can  do  noth- 
ing. Whoever  uses  instruments,  in  find- 
ing helps,  finds  also  impediments.  Their 
power  is  therefore  by  no  means  complete; 
nor  are  they  safe  in  extreme  abuse.  Such 
persons,  however  elevated  by  flattery, 
arrogance,  and  self-opinion,  must  be  sen- 
sible, that,  whether  covered  or  not  by 
positive  law,  in  some  way  or  other  they  are 
accountable  even  here  for  the  abuse  of 
their  trust.  If  they  are  not  cut  off  by  a 
rebellion  of  their  people,  they  may  be 
strangled  by  the  very  janissaries  kept  for 
their  security  against  all  other  rebellion. 
Thus  we  have  seen  the  king  of  France 
sold  by  his  soldiers  for  an  increase  of  pay. 
But  where  popular  authority  is  absolute 


and  unrestrained,  the  people  have  an 
infinitely  greater,  because  a  far  better 
founded,  confidence  in  their  own  power. 
They  are  themselves,  in  a  great  measure, 
their  own  instruments.  They  are  nearer 
to  their  objects.  Besides,  they  are  less 
under  responsibility  to  one  of  the  greatest 
controlling  powers  on  earth,  the  sense  of 
fame  and  estimation.  The  share  of  in- 
famy, that  is  likely  to  fall  to  the  lot  of  each 
individual  in  public  acts,  is  small  indeed; 
the  operation  of  opinion  being  in  the  in- 
verse ratio  to  the  number  of  those  who 
abuse  power.  Their  own  approbation  of 
their  own  acts  has  to  them  the  appearance 
of  a  public  judgment  in  their  favor.  A 
perfect  democracy  is  therefore  the  most 
shameless  thing  in  the  world.  As  it  is  the 
most  shameless,  it  is  also  the  most  fearless. 
No  man  apprehends  in  his  person  that  he 
can  be  made  subject  to  punishment. 
Certainly  the  people  at  large  never  ought: 
for  as  all  punishments  are  for  example 
towards  the  conservation  of  the  people 
at  large,  the  people  at  large  can  never  be- 
come the  subject  of  punishment  by  any 
human  hand.  It  is  therefore  of  infinite 
importance  that  they  should  not  be  suf- 
fered to  imagine  that  their  will,  any  more 
than  that  of  kings,  is  the  standard  of  right 
and  wrong.  They  ought  to  be  persuaded 
that  they  are  full  as  little  entitled,  and 
far  less  qualified  with  safety  to  themselves- 
to  use  any  arbitrary  power  whatsoever; 
that  therefore  they  are  not,  under  a  false 
show  of  liberty,  but  in  truth,  to  exercise 
an  unnatural,  inverted  dominion,  tyran- 
nically to  exact,  from  those  who  officiate 
in  the  state,  not  an  entire  devotion  to 
their  interest,  which  is  their  right,  but  an 
abject  submission  to  their  occasional  will; 
extinguishing  thereby,  in  all  those  who 
serve  them,  all  moral  principle,  all  sense 
of  dignity,  all  use  of  judgment,  and  all 
consistency  of  character;  whilst  by  the 
very  same  process  they  give  themselves 
up  a  proper,  suitable,  but  a  most  contemp- 
tible prey  to  the  servile  ambition  of  pop- 
ular sycophants,  or  courtly  flatterers. 

When  the  people  have  emptied  them- 
selves of  all  the  lust  of  selfish  will,  which 
without  religion  it  is  utterly  impossible 


442 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


they  ever  should,  when  they  are  conscious 
that  they  exercise,  and  exercise  perhaps 
in  a  higher  link  of  the  order  of  delegation, 
the  power,  which  to  be  legitimate  must  be 
according  to  that  eternal,  immutable  law 
in  which  will  and  reason  are  the  same,  they 
will  be  more  careful  how  they  place  power 
in  base  and  incapable  hands.  In  their 
nomination  to  office,  they  will  not  appoint 
to  the  exercise  of  authority,  as  to  a  pitiful 
job,  but  as  to  a  holy  function;  not  accord- 
ing to  their  sordid,  selfish  interest,  nor  to 
their  wanton  caprice,  nor  to  their  arbi- 
trary will;  but  they  will  confer  that  power 
(which  any  man  may  well  tremble  to  give 
or  to  receive)  on  those  only,  in  whom  they 
may  discern  that  predominant  propor- 
tion of  active  virtue,  and  wisdom,  taken 
together  and  fitted  to  the  charge,  such,  as 
in  the  great  and  inevitable  mixed  mass  of 
human  imperfections  and  infirmities,  is 
to  be  found. 

When  they  are  habitually  convinced 
that  no  evil  can  be  acceptable,  either  in  the 
act  or  the  permission,  to  him  whose  es- 
sence is  good,  they  will  be  better  able  to 
extirpate  out  of  the  minds  of  all  magis- 
trates, civil,  ecclesiastical,  or  military, 
anything  that  bears  the  least  resemblance 
to  a  proud  and  lawless  domination. 

But  one  of  the  first  and  most  leading 
principles  on  which  the  commonwealth 
and  the  laws  are  consecrated,  is  lest  the 
temporary  possessors  and  life-renters  in  it, 
unmindful  of  what  they  have  received 
from  their  ancestors,  or  of  what  is  due  their 
posterity,  should  act  as  if  they  were  the 
entire  masters ;  that  they  should  not  think 
it  among  their  rights  to  cut  off  the  entail, 
or  commit  waste  on  the  inheritance,  by 
destroying  at  their  pleasure  the  whole 
original  fabric  of  their  society;  hazarding 
to  leave  to  those  who  come  after  them  a 
ruin  instead  of  an  habitation — and  teach- 
ing these  successors  as  little  to  respect 
their  contrivances,  as  they  had  them- 
selves respected  the  institutions  of  their 
forefathers.  By  this  unprincipled  facility 
of  changing  the  state  as  often,  and  as 
much,  and  in  as  many  ways,  as  there  are 
floating  fancies  or  fashions,  the  whole 
chain  and  continuity  of  the  common- 


wealth would  be  broken.  No  one  gen- 
eration could  link  with  the  other.  Men 
would  become  little  better  than  the  flies 
of  a  summer. 

And  first  of  all,  the  science  of  juris- 
prudence, the  pride  of  the  human  intel- 
lect, which,  with  all  its  defects,  redun- 
dancies, and  errors,  is  the  collected  reason 
of  ages,  combining  the  principles  of  orig- 
inal justice  with  the  infinite  variety  of 
human  concerns,  as  a  heap  of  old  exploded 
errors,  would  be  no  longer  studied.  Per- 
sonal self-sufficiency  and  arrogance  (the 
certain  attendance  upon  all  those  who 
have  never  experienced  a  wisdom  greater 
than  their  own)  would  usurp  the  tribunal. 
Of  course  no  certain  laws,  establishing  in- 
variable grounds  of  hope  and  fear,  would 
keep  the  actions  of  men  in  a  certain  course, 
or  direct  them  to  a  certain  end.  Nothing 
stable  in  the  modes  of  holding  property,  or 
exercising  function,  could  form  a  solid 
ground  on  which  any  parent  could  specu- 
late in  the  education  of  his  offspring,  or  in 
a  choice  for  their  future  establishment  in 
the  world.  No  principles  would  be  early 
worked  into  the  habits.  As  soon  as  the 
most  able  instructor  had  completed  his 
laborious  course  of  instruction,  instead  of 
sending  forth  his  pupil,  accomplished  in  a 
virtuous  discipline,  fitted  to  procure  him 
attention  and  respect,  in  his  place  in 
society,  he  would  find  everything  altered; 
and  that  he  had  turned  out  a  poor  creature 
to  the  contempt  and  derision  of  the  world, 
ignorant  of  the  true  grounds  of  estimation. 
Who  would  insure  a  tender  and  delicate 
sense  of  honor  to  beat  almost  with  the  first 
pulses  of  the  heart,  when  no  man  could 
know  what  would  be  the  test  of  honor 
in  a  nation,  continually  varying  the  stand- 
ard of  its  coin?  No  part  of  life  would 
retain  its  acquisitions.  Barbarism  with 
regard  to  science  and  literature,  unskill- 
fulness  with  regard  to  arts  and  manu- 
factures, would  infallibly  succeed  to  the 
want  of  a  steady  education  and  settled 
principle;  and  thus  the  commonwealth 
itself  would  in  a  few  generations  crumble 
away,  be  disconnected  into  the  dust  and 
powder  of  individuality,  and  at  length  dis- 
perse to  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 


ESSAYS 


443 


To  avoid  therefore  the  evils  of  incon- 
stancy and  versatility,  ten  thousand 
times  worse  than  those  of  obstinacy  and 
the  blindest  prejudice,  we  have  conse- 
crated the  state,  that  no  man  should 
approach  to  look  into  its  defects  or  corrup- 
tions but  with  due  caution;  that  he  should 
never  dream  of  beginning  its  reformation 
by  its  subversion ;  that  he  should  approach 
to  the  faults  of  the  state  as  to  the  wounds 
of  a  father,  with  pious  awe  and  trembling 
solicitude.  By  this  wise  prejudice  we 
are  taught  to  look  with  horror  on  those 
children  of  their  country,  who  are  prompt 
rashly  to  hack  that  aged  parent  in  pieces, 
and  put  him  into  the  kettle  of  magicians, 
in  hopes  that  by  their  poisonous  weeds, 
and  wild  incantations,  they  may  regene- 
rate the  paternal  constitution,  and  reno- 
vate their  father's  life. 

Society  is  indeed  a  contract.  Subor- 
dinate contracts  for  objects  of  mere  occa- 
sional interest  may  be  dissolved  at  pleasure 
— but  the  state  ought  not  to  be  considered 
as  nothing  better  than  a  partnership 
agreement  in  a  trade  of  pepper  and  coffee, 
calico  or  tobacco,  or  some  other  such  low 
concern,  to  be  taken  up  for  a  little  tem- 
porary interest,  and  to  be  dissolved  by  the 
fancy  of  the  parties.  It  is  to  be  looked  on 
with  other  reverence;  because  it  is  not  a 
partnership  in  things  subservient  only  to 
the  gross  animal  existence  of  a  temporary 
and  perishable  nature.  It  is  a  partnership 
in  all  science;  a  partnership  in  all  art;  a 
partnership  in  every  virtue,  and  in  all  per- 
fection. As  the  ends  of  such  a  partner- 
ship cannot  be  obtained  in  many  gene- 
rations, it  becomes  a  partnership  not  only 
between  those  who  are  living,  but  between 
those  who  are  living,  those  who  are  dead, 
and  those  who  are  to  be  born.  Each  con- 
tract of  each  particular  state  is  but  a  clause 
in  the  great  primaeval  contract  of  eternal 
society,  linking  the  lower  with  the  higher 
natures,  connecting  the  visible  and  in- 
visible world,  according  to  a  fixed  com- 
pact sanctioned  by  the  inviolable  oath 
which  holds  all  physical  and  all  moral 
natures,  each  in  their  appointed  place. 
This  law  is  not  subject  to  the  will  of  those, 
who  by  an  obligation  above  them,  and 


infinitely  superior,  are  bound  to  submit 
their  will  to  that  law.  The  municipal 
corporations  of  that  universal  kingdom 
are  not  morally  at  liberty  at  their  pleasure, 
and  on  their  speculations  of  a  contingent 
improvement,  wholly  to  separate  and  tear 
asunder  the  bands  of  their  subordinate 
community,  and  to  dissolve  it  into  an 
unsocial,  uncivil,  unconnected  chaos  of 
elementary  principles.  It  is  the  first  and 
supreme  necessity  only,  a  necessity  that 
is  not  chosen,  but  chooses,  a  necessity 
paramount  to  deliberation,  that  admits  no 
discussion,  and  demands  no  evidence, 
which  alone  can  justify  a  resort  to  anarchy. 
This  necessity  is  no  exception  to  the  rule; 
because  this  necessity  itself  is  a  part  too 
of  that  moral  and  physical  disposition  of 
things,  to  which  man  must  be  obedient 
by  consent  or  force:  but  if  that  which  is 
only  submission  to  necessity  should  be 
made  the  object  of  choice,  the  law  is 
broken,  nature  is  disobeyed,  and  the  re- 
bellious are  outlawed,  cast  forth,  and 
exiled,  from  this  world  of  reason,  and 
order,  and  peace,  and  virtue,  and  fruitful 
penitence,  into  the  antagonist  world  of 
madness,  discord,  vice,  confusion,  and 
unavailing  sorrow. 

These,  my  dear  Sir,  are,  were,  and,  1 
think,  long  will  be,  the  sentiments  of  not 
the  least  learned  and  reflecting  part  of  this 
kingdom.  They,  who  are  included  in 
this  description,  form  their  opinions  on 
such  grounds  as  such  persons  ought  to 
form  them.  The  less  inquiring  receive 
them  from  an  authority,  which  those 
whom  Providence  dooms  to  live  on  trust 
need  not  be  ashamed  to  rely  on.  These 
two  sorts  of  men  move  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, though  in  a  different  place.  They 
both  move  with  the  order  of  the  universe. 
They  all  know  or  feel  this  great  ancient 
truth:  Quod  illi  principi  et  prcepolenti 
Deo  qui  omnem  hunc  mundum  regit,  nihil 
eorum  qua  quidem  fiant  in  terris  acceptius 
quam  concilia  et  coetus  hominum  jure 
sociati  qwR  civitates  appellantur .  They 
take  this  tenet  of  the  head  and  heart,  not 
from  the  great  name  which  it  immediately 
bears,  nor  from  the  greater  from  whence  it 
is  derived;  but  from  that  which  alone  can 


444 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


give  true  weight  and  sanction  to  any 
learned  opinion,  the  common  nature  and 
common  relation  of  men.  Persuaded  that 
all  things  ought  to  be  done  with  reference, 
and  referring  all  to  the  point  of  reference 
to  which  all  should  be  directed,  they  think 
themselves  bound,  not  only  as  individuals 
in  the  sanctuary  of  the  heart,  or  as  con- 
gregated in  that  personal  capacity,  to 
renew  the  memory  of  their  high  origin 
and  cast;  but  also  in  their  corporate 
character  to  perform  their  national  hom- 
age to  the  institutes,  and  author,  and  pro- 
tector of  civil  society;  without  which  civil 
society  man  could  not  by  any  possibility 
arrive  at  the  perfection  of  which  his  nature 
is  capable,  nor  even  make  a  remote  and 
faint  approach  to  it.  They  conceive  that 
He  who  gave  our  nature  to  be  perfected  by 
our  virtue,  willed  also  the  necessary  means 
of  its  perfection — He  willed  therefore  the 
state — He  willed  its  connection  with  the 
source  and  original  archetype  of  all  per- 
fection. They  who  are  convinced  of  this 
will,  which  is  the  law  of  laws,  and  the 
sovereign  of  sovereigns,  cannot  think  it 
reprehensible  that  this  our  corporate 
fealty  and  homage,  that  this  our  recogni- 
tion of  a  signiory  paramount,  I  had  almost 
said  this  oblation  of  the  state  itself,  as  a 
worthy  offering  on  the  high  altar  of  uni- 
versal praise,  should  be  performed  as  all 
public,  solemn  acts  are  performed,  in 
buildings,  in  music,  in  decoration,  in 
speech,  in  the  dignity  of  persons,  according 
to  the  customs  of  mankind,  taught  by  their 
nature;  this  is,  with  modest  splendor  and 
unassuming  state,  with  mild  majesty  and 
sober  pomp.  For  those  purposes  they 
think  some  part  of  the  wealth  of  the  coun- 
try is  as  usefully  employed  as  it  can  be  in 
fomenting  the  luxury  of  individuals.  It 
is  the  public  ornament.  It  is  the  public 
consolation.  It  nourishes  the  public  hope. 
The  poorest  man  finds  his  own  impor- 
tance and  dignity  in  it,  whilst  the  wealth 
and  pride  of  individuals  at  every  mo- 
ment makes  the  man  of  humble  rank  and 
fortune  sensible  of  his  inferiority,  and  de- 
grades and  vilifies  his  condition.  It  is  for 
the  man  in  humble  life,  and  to  raise  his 
nature,  and  to  put  him  in  mind  of  a  state  in 


which  the  privileges  of  opulence  willi 
cease,  when  he  will  be  equal  by  nature, 
and  may  be  more  than  equal  by  virtue, 
that  this  portion  of  the  general  wealth 
of  his  country  is  employed  and  sanctified.' 

CONSERVATIVE  REFORM 

AT  ONCE  to  preserve  and  to  reform  is 
quite  another  thing.  When  the  useful 
parts  of  an  old  establishment  are  kept, 
and  what  is  superadded  is  to  be  fitted  to 
what  is  retained,  a  vigorous  mind,  steady, 
persevering  attention,  various  powers  of 
comparison  and  combination,  and  the 
resources  of  an  understanding  fruitful  in 
expedients,  are  to  be  exercised;  they  are 
to  be  exercised  in  a  continued  conflict 
with  the  combined  force  of  opposite  vices, 
with  the  obstinacy  that  rejects  all  im- 
provement, and  the  levity  that  is  fatigued 
and  disgusted  with  everything  of  which  it 
is  in  possession.  But  you  may  object — 
"A  process  of  this  kind  is  slow.  It  is  not 
fit  for  an  assembly,  which  glories  in  per- 
forming in  a  few  months  the  work  of  ages. 
Such  a  mode  of  reforming,  possibly,  might 
take  up  many  years."  Without_question 
itjnight;  and  it  ought.  IFls  one  of  tHe 
excellencies  of  a  method  in  which  time  is 
amongst  the  assistants,  that  its  operation 
is  slow,  and  in  some  cases  almost  imper- 
ceptible. If  circumspection  and  caution 
are  a  part  of  wisdom,  when  we  work  only 
upon  inanimate  matter,  surely  they  be- 
come a  part  of  duty  too,  when  the  subject 
of  our  demolition  and  construction  is  not 
brick  and  timber,  but  sentient  beings,  by 
the  sudden  alteration  of  whose  state,  con- 
dition, and  habits,  multitudes  may  be 
rendered  miserable.  But  it  seems  as  if 
it  were  the  prevalent  opinion  in  Paris, 
that  an  unfeeling  heart,  and  an  undoubt- 
ing  confidence,  are  the  sole  qualifications 
for  a  perfect  legislator.  Far  different  are 
my  ideas  of  that  high  office.  The  true 
lawgiver  ought  to  have  a  heart  full  of  sen- 
sibility. He  ought  to  love  and  respect 
his  kinds,  and  to  fear  himself.  It  may  be 
allowed  to  his  temperament  to  catch  his 
ultimate  object  with  an  intuitive  glance; 
but  his  movements  towards  it  ought  to  be 


ESSAYS 


445 


deliberate.    Political  arrangement,  as  it 
is  a  work  for  social  ends,  is  to  be  only 
wrought  by  social  means.    There  mind 
must  conspire  with  mind.     Time  is  re- 
quired to  produce  that  union  of  minds 
which  alone  can  produce  all  the  good  we 
aim  at.    Our  patience  will  achieve  more 
than  our  force.     If  I  might  venture  to 
appeal  to  what  is  so  much  out  of  fashion  in 
Paris,  I  mean  to  experience,  I  should  tell 
you,  that  in  my  course  I  have  known,  and, 
according    to    my    measure,    have    co- 
operated with  great  men;  and  I  have  never 
yet  seen  any  plan  which  has  not  been 
mended  by  the  observations  of  those  who 
were  much  inferior  in  understanding  to 
the  person  who  took  the  lead  in  the  busi- 
ness.   By  a  slow  but  well-sustained  prog- 
ress, the  effect  of  each  step  is  watched; 
the  good  or  ill  success  of  the  first  gives 
light  to  us  in  the  second;  and  so,  from  light 
to  light,  we  are  conducted  with  safety 
through  the  whole  series.    We  see  that  the 
parts  of  the  system  do  not  clash.    The 
evils  latent  hi  the  most  promising  contri- 
vances are  provided  for  as  they  arise. 
One  advantage  is  as  little  as  possible  sacri- 
ficed  to   another.    We   compensate,   we 
reconcile,  we  balance.    We  are  enabled  to 
unite  into  a  consistent  whole  the  various 
anomalies  and  contending  principles  that 
are  found  in  the  minds  and  affairs  of  men. 
From  hence  arises,  not  an  excellence  in 
simplicity,  but  one  far  superior,  an  excel- 
lence in  composition.    Where  the  great 
interests     of     mankind     are     concerned 
through  a  long  succession  of  generations, 
that  succession  ought  to  be  admitted  into 
some  share  in  the  councils  which  are  so 
deeply  to  affect  them.     If  justice  requires 
this,  the  work  itself  requires  the  aid  of 
more  minds  than  one  age  can  furnish. 
It  is  from  this  view  of  things  that  the  best 
legislators  have  been  often  satisfied  with 
the  establishment  of  some  sure,  solid,  and 
ruling  principle  in  government;  a  power 
like  that  which  some  of  the  philosophers 
have  called  a  plastic  nature;  and  having 
fixed  the  principle,  they  have  left  it  after- 
wards to  its  own  operation. 

To  proceed  in  this  manner,  that  is,  to 
proceed  with  a  presiding  principle,  and  a 


prolific  energy,  is  with  me  the  criterion  of 
profound    wisdom.     What    your    politi- 
cians think  the  marks  of  a  bold,  hardy 
genius,  are  only  proofs  of  a  deplorable 
want  of  ability.     By  their  violent  haste 
and  their  defiance  of  the  process  of  nature, 
theyare  delivered  over  blindly  to  everypro- 
jector  and  adventurer,  to  every  alchemist 
and  empiric.     They  despair  of  turning  to 
account  anything  that  is  common.    Diet 
is   nothing   in   their   system   of   remedy. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  that  this  their  despair 
of  curing  common  distempers  by  regular 
methods,  arises  not  only  from  defect  of 
comprehension,  but,  I  fear,  from  some 
malignity  of  disposition.    Your  legislators 
seem  to  have  taken  their  opinions  of  all 
professions,  ranks,  and  offices,  from  the 
declamations  and  buffooneries  of  satirists; 
who  would  themselves  be  astonished  if 
they  were  held  to  the  letter  of  their  own 
descriptions.    By  listening  only  to  these, 
your  leaders  regard  all  things  only  on  the 
side  of  their  vices  and  faults,  and  view 
those  vices  and  faults  under  every  color 
of  exaggeration.    It  is  undoubtedly  true, 
though  it  may  seem  paradoxical;  but  in 
general,   those  who  are  habitually  em- 
ployed in  finding  and  displaying  faults, 
are  unqualified  for  the  work  of  reformation : 
because  their  minds  are  not  only  unfur- 
nished with  patterns  of  the  fair  and  good, 
but  by  habit  they  come  to  take  no  delight 
in  the  contemplation  of  those  things.    By 
hating  vices  too  much,  they  come  to  love 
men  too  little.    It  is  therefore  not  wonder- 
ful, that  they  should  be  indisposed  and 
unable  to  serve  them.    From  hence  arises 
the  complexional  disposition  of  some  of 
your  guides  to  pull  everything  in  pieces. 
At  this  malicious  game  they  display  the 
whole    of    their    quadrimanous    activity. 
As  to  the  rest,  the  paradoxes  of  eloquent 
writers,  brought  forth  purely  as  a  sport 
of  fancy,  to  try  their  talents,  to  rouse 
attention  and  excite  surprise,  are  taken  up 
by  these  gentlemen,  not  in  the  spirit  of 
the  original  authors,  as  means  of  cultivat- 
ing their  taste  and  improving  their  style. 
These  paradoxes  become  with   them  se- 
rious grounds  of  action,  upon  which  they 
proceed  in  regulating  the  most  important 


446 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


concerns  of  the  state.  Cicero  ludicrously 
describes  Cato  as  endeavoring  to  act,  in 
the  commonwealth,  upon  the  school 
paradoxes,  which  exercised  the  wits  of  the 
junior  students  in  the  Stoic  philosophy. 
If  this  was  true  of  Cato,  these  gentlemen 
copy  after  him  in  the  manner  of  some  per- 
sons who  lived  about  his  time — pede  nudo 
Catonem.  Mr.  Hume  told  me  that  he  had 
from  Rousseau  himself  the  secret  of  his 
principles  of  composition.  That  acute 
though  eccentric  observer  had  perceived, 
that  to  strike  and  interest  the  public, 
the  marvellous  must  be  produced;  that  the 
marvellous  of  the  heathen  mythology 
had  long  since  lost  its  effects;  that  giants, 
magicians,  fairies,  and  heroes  of  romance 
which  succeeded,  had  exhausted  the  por- 
tion of  credulity  which  belonged  to  their 
age;  that  now  nothing  was  left  to  the  writer 
but  that  species  of  the  marvellous  which 
might  still  be  produced,  and  with  as  great 
an  effect  as  ever,  though  in  another  way; 
that  is,  the  marvellous  in  life,  in  manners, 
in  characters,  and  hi  extraordinary  situa- 
tions, J  giving  rise  to  new  and  unlooked- 
for  strokes  in  politics  and  morals.  I  I  be- 
lieve, that  were  Rousseau  alive,  and  in 
one  of  his  lucid  intervals,  he  would  be 
shocked  at  the  practical  frenzy  of  his 
scholars,  who,  in  their  paradoxes,  are  servile 
imitators;  and  even  in  their  incredulity 
discover  an  implicit  faith. 

TRUE   LIBERTY 

THE  effects  of  the  incapacity  shown  by 
the  popular  leaders  in  all  the  great  mem- 
bers of  the  commonwealth  are  to  be  cov- 
ered with  the  "all-atoning  name"  of  liberty. 
In  some  people  I  see  great  liberty  indeed; 
in  many,  if  not  in  the  most,  an  oppressive, 
degrading  servitude.  But  what  is  liberty 
without  wisdom,  and  without  virtue? 
It  is  the  greatest  of  all  possible  evils; 
for  it  is  folly,  vice,  and  madness,  without 
tuition  or  restraint.  Those  who  know 
what  virtuous  liberty  is,  cannot  bear  to 
see  it  disgraced  by  incapable  heads,  on 
account  of  their  having  high-sounding 
words  in  their  mouths.  Grand,  swelling 
sentiments  of  liberty  I  am  sure  I  do  not 


despise.  They  warm  the  heart;  they  en- 
large and  liberalize  our  minds;  they  ani- 
mate our  courage  in  a  time  of  conflict. 
Old  as  I  am,  I  read  the  fine  raptures  of 
Lucan  and  Corneille  with  pleasure. 
Neither  do  I  wholly  condemn  the  little 
arts  and  devices  of  popularity.  They 
facilitate  the  carrying  of  many  points  of 
moment;  they  keep  the  people  together; 
they  refresh  the  mind  in  its  exertions;  and 
they  diffuse  occasional  gaiety  over  the 
severe  brow  of  moral  freedom.  Every 
politician  ought  to  sacrifice  to  the  graces; 
and  to  join  compliance  with  reason.  But 
in  such  an  undertaking  as  that  in  France, 
all  these  subsidiary  sentiments  and  arti- 
fices are  of  little  avail.  To  make  a  govern- 
ment requires  no  great  prudence.  Settle 
the  seat  of  power;  teach  obedience:  and 
the  work  is  done.  To  give  freedom  is 
still  more  easy.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
guide;  it  only  requires  to  let  go  the  rein. 
But  to  form  a  free  government;  that  is,  to 
temper  together  these  opposite  elements 
of  liberty  and  restraint  in  one  consistent 
work,  requires  much  thought,  deep  reflec- 
tion, a  sagacious,  powerful,  and  combin- 
ing mind.  This  I  do  not  find  in  those  who 
take  the  lead  in  the  National  Assembly. 
Perhaps  they  are  not  so  miserably  defi- 
cient as  they  appear.  I  rather  believe  it. 
It  would  put  them  below  the  common  level 
of  human  understanding.  But  when  the 
leaders  choose  to  make  themselves  bidders 
at  an  auction  of  popularity,  their  talents, 
in  the  construction  of  the  state,  will  be  of 
no  service.  They  will  become  flatterers 
instead  of  legislators;  the  instruments, 
not  the  guides,  of  the  people.  If  any  of 
them  should  happen  to  propose  a  scheme 
of  liberty,  soberly  limited,  and  defined 
with  proper  qualifications,  he  will  be  im- 
mediately outbid  by  his  competitors,  who 
will  produce  something  more  splendidly 
popular.  Suspicions  will  be  raised  of  his 
fidelity  to  his  cause.  Moderation  will  be 
stigmatized  as  the  virtue  of  cowards; 
and  compromise  as  the  prudence  of  trait- 
ors; until,  in  hopes  of  preserving  the 
credit  which  may  enable  him  to  temper, 
and  moderate,  on  some  occasions,  the 
popular  leader  is  obliged  to  become  active 


ESSAYS 


447 


in  propagating  doctrines,  and  establishing 
powers,  that  will  afterwards  defeat  any 
sober  purpose  at  which  he  ultimately 
might  have  aimed. 

But  am  I  so  unreasonable  as  to  see 
nothing  at  all  that  deserves  commenda- 
tion in  the  indefatigable  labors  of  this 
Assembly?  I  do  not  deny  that,  among 
an  infinite  number  of  acts  of  violence  and 
folly,  some  good  may  have  been  done. 
They  who  destroy  everything  certainly 
will  remove  some  grievance.  They  who 
make  everything  new,  have  a  chance  that 
they  may  establish  something  beneficial. 
To  give  them  credit  for  what  they  have 
done  hi  virtue  of  the  authority  they  have 
usurped,  or  which  can  excuse  them  in  the 
crimes  by  which  that  authority  has  been 
acquired,  it  must  appear,  that  the  same 
things  could  not  have  been  accomplished 
without  producing  such  a  revolution. 
Most  assuredly  they  might;  because  al- 
most every  one  of  the  regulations  made 
by  them,  which  is  not  very  equivocal, 
was  either  in  the  cession  of  the  king,  vol- 
untarily made  at  the  meeting  of  the  states, 
or  in  the  concurrent  instructions  to  the 
orders.  Some  usages  have  been  abolished 
on  just  grounds;  but  they  were  such,  that  if 
they  had  stood  as  they  were  to  all  eternity, 
they  would  little  detract  from  the  happi- 
ness and  prosperity  of  any  state.  The 
improvements  of  the  National  Assembly 
are  superficial,  their  errors  fundamental. 

Whatever  they  are,  I  wish  my  country- 
men rather  to  recommend  to  our  neigh- 
bors the  example  of  the  British  constitu- 
tion, than  to  take  models  from  them  for 
the  improvement  of  our  own.  In  the 
former  they  have  got  an  invaluable 
treasure.  They  are  not,  I  think,  without 
some  causes  of  apprehension  and  com- 
plaint; but  these  they  do  not  owe  to  their 
constitution,  but  to  their  own  conduct.  I 
think  our  happy  situation  owing  to  our 
constitution ;  but  owing  to  the  whole  of  it, 
and  not  to  any  part  singly;  owing  in  a 
great  measure  to  what  we  have  left  stand- 
ing in  our  several  reviews  and  reforma- 
tions, as  well  as  to  what  we  have  altered 
or  superadded.  Our  people  will  find  em- 
ployment enough  for  a  truly  patriotic, 


free,  and  independent  spirit,  in  guarding 
what  they  possess  from  violation.  I 
would  not  exclude  alteration  neither;  but 
even  when  I  changed,  it  should  be  to  pre- 
serve. I  should  be  led  to  my  remedy  by  a 
great  grievance.  In  what  I  did,  I  should 
follow  the  example  of  our  ancestors.  I 
would  make  the  reparation  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  the  style  of  the  building.  A 
politic  caution,  a  guarded  circumspection, 
a  moral  rather  than  a  complexional 
timidity,  were  among  the  ruling  principles 
of  our  forefathers  in  their  most  decided 
conduct.  Not  being  illuminated  with 
the  light  of  which  the  gentlemen  of  France 
tell  us  they  have  got  so  abundant  a  share, 
they  acted  under  a  strong  impression  of  the 
ignorance  and  fallibility  of  mankind.  He 
that  had  made  them  thus  fallible,  re- 
warded them  for  having  in  their  conduct 
attended  to  their  nature.  Let  us  imitate 
their  caution,  if  we  wish  to  deserve  their 
fortune,  or  to  retain  their  bequests.  Let 
us  add,  if  we  please,  but  let  us  preserve 
what  they  have  left:  and  standing  on  the 
firm  ground  of  the  British  constitution, 
let  us  be  satisfied  to  admire,  rather  than 
attempt  to  follow  in  their  desperate 
flights,  the  aeronauts  of  France. 
I  have  told  you  candidly  my  sentiments. 
I  think  they  are  not  likely  to  alter  yours. 
I  do  not  know  that  they  ought.  You  are 
young;  you  cannot  guide,  but  must  follow 
the  fortune  of  your  country.  But,  here- 
after they  may  be  of  some  use  to  you,  in 
some  future  form  which  your  common- 
wealth may  take.  In  the  present  it  can 
hardly  remain;  but  before  its  final  settle- 
ment it  may  be  obliged  to  pass,  as  one  of 
our  poets  says,  "through  great  varieties 
of  untried  being,"  and  in  all  its  transmi- 
grations to  be  purified  by  fire  and  blood. 
I  have  little  to  recommend  my  opinions 
but  long  observation  and  much  impar- 
tiality. They  come  from  one  who  has 
been  no  tool  of  power,  no  flatterer  of 
greatness;  and  who  in  his  last  acts  does 
not  wish  to  belie  the  tenor  of  his  life. 
They  come  from  one,  almost  the  whole  of 
whose  public  exertion  has  been  a  struggle 
for  the  liberty  of  others,  from  one  in 
whose  breast  no  anger  durable  or  vehe- 


443 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ment  has  ever  been  kindled,  but  by  what 
he  considered  as  tyranny; and  who  snatches 
from  his  share  in  the  endeavors  which 
are  used  by  good  men  to  discredit  opulent 
oppression,  the  hours  he  has  employed  on 
your  affairs;  and  who  in  so  doing  per- 
suades himself  he  has  not  departed  from 
his  usual  office;  they  come  from  one  who 
desires  honors,  distinctions,  and  emolu- 
ments, but  little;  and  who  expects  them 
not  at  all;  who  has  no  contempt  for  fame, 


and  no  fear  of  obloquy;  who  shuns  con- 
tention, though  he  will  hazard  an  opin- 
ion; from  one  who  wishes  to  preserve 
consistency,  but  who  would  preserve  con- 
sistency by  varying  his  means  to  secure 
the  unity  of  his  end;  and,  when  the  equi- 
poise of  the  vessel  in  which  he  sails  may  be 
endangered  by  overloading  it  upon  one 
side,  is  desirous  of  carrying  the  small 
weight  of  his  reasons  to  that  which  may 
preserve  its  equipoise.  (1790) 


CHARLES  LAMB  (1775-1834) 

IBs  essays  and  letters  reveal  Lamb  himself,  perhaps  the  most  engaging  personality  in  all  English 
literature.  He  is  always  good  company,  delighting  the  reader — whom  he  seems  to  nudge  with  his 
elbow — by  shrewd  remarks  upon  life  and  people,  by  fine  humor,  and  by  a  sort  of  sly,  surprising  drollery. 


FROM  "ESSAYS  OF  ELIA" 
POOR  RELATIONS 

A  POOR  Relation — is  the  most  irrele- 
vant thing  in  nature, — a  piece  of 
impertinent  correspondency, — an  odious 
approximation, — a  haunting  conscience, — 
a  preposterous  shadow,  lengthening  in  the 
noontide  of  our  prosperity, — an  unwel- 
come remembrancer, — a  perpetually  re- 
curring mortification, — a  drain  on  your 
purse, — a  more  intolerable  dun  upon  your 
pride, — a  drawback  upon  success, — a  re- 
buke to  your  rising, — a  stain  in  your 
blood, — a  blot  on  your  'scutcheon, — a 
rent  in  your  garment, — a  death's  head 
at  your  banquet, — Agathocles'  pot, — 
a  Mordecai  in  your  gate, — a  Lazarus  at 
your  door, — a  lion  in  your  path, — a  frog 
in  your  chamber, — a  fly  in  your  ointment, 
— a  mote  in  your  eye, — a  triumph  to  your 
enemy,  an  apology  to  your  friends, — the 
one  thing  not  needful, — the  hail  in  harvest, 
— the  ounce  of  sour  in  a  pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.  Your  heart 

telleth  you  "That  is  Mr. ."  A  rap, 

between  familiarity  and  respect;  that 
demands,  and,  at  the  same  time,  seems 
to  despair  of,  entertainment.  He  entereth 
smiling  and — embarrassed.  He  holdeth 
out  his  hand  to  you  to  shake,  and — draw- 
eth  it  back  again.  He  casually  looketh 
in  about  dinner-time — when  the  table  is 
full.  He  offereth  to  go  away,  seeing  you 


have  company,  but  is  induced  to  stay.  He 
filleth  a  chair,  and  your  visitor's  two 
children  are  accommodated  at  a  side 
table.  He  never  cometh  upon  open  days, 
when  your  wife  says  with  some  compla- 
cency, "My  dear,  perhaps  Mr. —  -  will 
drop  in  to-day."  He  remembereth  birth- 
days— and  professeth  he  is  fortunate  to 
have  stumbled  upon  one.  He  declareth 
against  fish,  the  turbot  being  small — yet 
suffereth  himself  to  be  importuned  into  a 
slice  against  his  first  resolution.  He 
sticketh  by  the  port — yet  will  be  prevailed 
upon  to  empty  the  remainder  glass  of 
claret,  if  a  stranger  press  it  upon  him.  He 
is  a  puzzle  to  the  servants,  who  are  fear- 
ful of  being  too  obsequious,  or  not  civil 
enough,  to  him.  The  guests  think  "they 
have  seen  him  before."  Everyone  specu- 
lateth  upon  his  condition;  and  the  most 
part  take  him  to  be — a  tide  waiter.  He 
calleth  you  by  your  Christian  name,  to 
imply  that  his  other  is  the  same  with  your 
own.  He  is  too  familiar  by  hah",  yet  you 
wish  he  had  less  diffidence.  With  half  the 
familiarity  he  might  pass  for  a  casual  de- 
pendent; with  more  boldness  he  would  be 
in  no  danger  of  being  taken  for  what  he  is. 
He  is  too  humble  for  a  friend,  yet  taketh 
on  him  more  state  than  befits  a  client. 
He  is  a  worse  guest  than  a  country  tenant, 
inasmuch  as  he  bringeth  up  no  rent — 
yet 't  is  odds,  from  his  garb  and  demeanor, 
that  your  guests  take  him  for  one.  He  is 


ESSAYS 


449 


asked  to  make  one  at  the  whist  table;  re- 
fuseth  on  the  score  of  poverty,  and — resents 
being  left  out.  When  the  company  break 
up  he  proffereth  to  go  for  a  coach — and 
Jets  the  servant  go.  He  recollects  your 
grandfather ;  and  will  thrust  in  some  mean 
and  quite  unimportant  anecdote  of — the 
family.  He  knew  it  when  it  was  not  quite 
so  flourishing  as  "he  is  blest  in  seeing  it 
now."  He  reviveth  past  situations  to 
institute  what  he  calleth — favorable  com- 
parisons. With  a  reflecting  sort  of  con- 
gratulation, he  will  inquire  the  price  of 
your  furniture:  and  insults  you  with  a 
special  commendation  of  your  window- 
curtains.  He  is  of  opinion  that  the  urn 
is  the  more  elegant  shape,  but,  after  all, 
there  was  something  more  comfortable 
about  the  old  tea-kettle — which  you  must 
remember.  He  dare  say  you  must  find 
a  great  convenience  in  having  a  carriage 
of  your  own,  and  appealeth  to  your  lady 
if  it  is  not  so.  Inquireth  if  you  have  had 
your  arms  done  on  vellum  yet;  and  did 
not  know,  till  lately,  that  such-and-such 
had  been  the  crest  of  the  family.  His 
memory  is  unseasonable;  his  compliments 
perverse;  his  talk  a  trouble;  his  stay  per- 
tinacious; and  when  he  goeth  away,  you 
dismiss  his  chair  into  a  corner,  as  pre- 
cipitately as  possible,  and  feel  fairly  rid 
of  two  nuisances. 

There  is  a  worse  evil  under  the  sun,  and 
that  is — a  female  Poor  Relation.  You 
may  do  something  with  the  other;  you 
may  pass  him  off  tolerably  well;  but 
your  indigent  she-relative  is  hopeless. 
"He  is  an  old  humorist,"  you  may  say, 
"and  affects  to  go  threadbare.  His  cir- 
cumstances are  better  than  folks  would 
take  them  to  be.  You  are  fond  of  having 
a  Character  at  your  table,  and  truly  he  is 
one."  But  in  the  indications  of  female 
poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise.  No 
woman  dresses  below  herself  from  caprice. 
The  truth  must  out  without  shuffling. 

"She  is  plainly  related  to  the  L s;  or 

what  does  she  at  their  house?"  She  is, 
in  all  probability,  your  wife's  cousin. 
Nine  times  out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is  the 
case.  Her  garb  is  something  between  a 
gentlewoman  and  a  beggar,  yet  the  former 


evidently  predominates.  She  is  moe* 
provokingly  humble,  and  ostentatiously 
sensible  to  her  inferiority.  He  may 
require  to  be  repressed  sometimes— 
aliquando  sufflaminandus  erat — but  there 
is  no  raising  her.  You  send  her  soup  at 
dinner,  and  she  begs  to  be  helped — 

after  the  gentlemen.     Mr. requests  the 

honor  of  taking  wine  with  her;  she  hesitates 
between  Port  and  Madeira,  and  chooses 
the  former — because  he  does.  She  calls 
the  servant  Sir;  and  insists  on  not  trou- 
bling him  to  hold  her  plate.  The  house- 
keeper patronizes  her.  The  children's 
governess  takes  upon  her  to  correct  her, 
when  she  has  mistaken  the  piano  for 
harpsichord. 

Richard  Amlet,  Esq.,  in  the  play,  is  a 
noticeable  instance  of  the  disadvantages 
to  which  this  chimerical  notion  of  affinity 
constituting  a  claim  to  an  acqttaintance, 
may  subject  the  spirit  of  a  gentleman.  A 
little  foolish  blood  is  all  that  is  betwixt 
him  and  a  lady  with  a  great  estate.  His 
stars  are  perpetually  crossed  by  the  malig- 
nant maternity  of  an  old  woman,  who 
persists  in  calling  him  "her  son  Dick." 
But  she  has  wherewithal  in  the  end  to 
recompense  his  indignities,  and  float  him 
again  upon  the  brilliant  surface,  under 
which  it  had  been  her  seeming  business 
and  pleasure  all  along  to  sink  him.  All 
men,  besides,  are  not  of  Dick's  tempera- 
ment. I  knew  an  Amlet  in  real  life, 
who  wanting  Dick's  buoyancy,  sank 

indeed.    Poor   W was  of  my  own 

standing  at  Christ's,  a  fine  classic,  and  a 
youth  of  promise.  If  he  had  a  blemish, 
it  was  too  much  pride;  but  its  quality 
was  inoffensive;  it  was  not  of  that  sort 
which  hardens  the  heart,  and  serves  to 
keep  inferiors  at  a  distance;  it  only  sought 
to  ward  off  derogation  from  itself.  It 
was  the  principle  of  self-respect  carried 
as  far  as  it  could  go,  without  infringing 
upon  that  respect,  which  he  would  have 
every  one  else  equally  maintain  for  him- 
self. He  would  have  you  to  think  alike 
with  him  on  this  topic.  Many  a  quarrel 
have  I  had  with  him,  when  we  were  rather 
older  boys,  and  our  tallness  made  us  more 
obnoxious  to  observation  in  the  blue 


45° 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


clothes,  because  I  would  not  thread  the 
alleys  and  blind  ways  of  the  town  with 
him  to  elude  notice,  when  we  have  been 
out  together  on  a  holiday  hi  the  streets 
of  this  sneering  and  prying  metropolis. 
W —  -  went,  sore  with  these  notions,  to 
Oxford,  where  the  dignity  and  sweetness 
of  a  scholar's  life,  meeting  with  the  alloy 
of  a  humble  introduction,  wrought  in 
him  a  passionate  devotion  to  the  place, 
with  a  profound  aversion  to  the  society. 
The  servitor's  gown  (worse  than  his 
school  array)  clung  to  him  with  Nessian 
venom.  He  thought  himself  ridiculous  in 
a  garb,  under  which  Latimer  must  have 
walked  erect;  and  in  which  Hooker,  in  his 
young  days,  possibly  flaunted  in  a  vein 
of  no  discommendable  vanity.  In  the 
depths  of  college  shades,  or  hi  his  lonely 
chamber,  the  poor  student  shrunk  from 
observation.  He  found  shelter  among 
books,  which  insult  not;  and  studies, 
that  ask  no  questions  of  a  youth's  finances. 
He  was  lord  of  his  library,  and  seldom 
cared  for  looking  out  beyond  his  domains. 
The  healing  influence  of  studious  pursuits 
was  upon  him,  to  soothe  and  to  abstract. 
He  was  almost  a  healthy  man;  when  the 
waywardness  of  his  fate  broke  out  against 
him  with  a  second  and  worse  malignity. 
The  father  of  W had  hitherto  exer- 
cised the  humble  profession  of  house- 
painter  at  N ,  near  Oxford.  A  sup- 
posed interest  with  some  of  the  heads  of 
colleges  had  now  induced  him  to  take  up 
his  abode  in  that  city,  with  the  hope  of 
being  employed  upon  some  public  works 
which  were  talked  of.  From  that  mo- 
ment I  read  in  the  countenance  of  the 
young  man,  the  determination  which  at 
length  tore  him  from  academical  pursuits 
for  ever.  To  a  person  unacquainted  with 
our  Universities,  the  distance  between  the 
gownsmen  and  the  townsmen,  as  they  are 
called — the  trading  part  of  the  latter 
especially — is  carried  to  an  excess  that 
would  appear  harsh  and  incredible.  The 

temperament    of    W 's    father    was 

diametrically  the  reverse  of  his  own.  Old 
W was  a  little,  busy,  cringing  trades- 
man, who,  with  his  son  upon  his  arm, 
would  stand  bowing  and  scraping,  cap  in 


hand,  to  anything  that  wore  the  semblance 
of  a  gown — insensible  to  the  winks  and 
opener  remonstrances  of  the  young  man, 
to  whose  chamber-fellow,  or  equal  in 
standing,  perhaps,  he  was  thus  obse- 
quiously and  gratuitously  ducking.  Such 
a  state  of  things  could  not  last.  W— 
must  change  the  air  of  Oxford  or  be  suf- 
focated. He  chose  the  former;  and  let  the 
sturdy  moralist,  who  strains  the  point  of 
the  filial  duties  as  high  as  they  can  bear, 
censure  the  dereliction;  he  cannot  estimate 

the  struggle.     I  stood  with  W ,  the 

last  afternoon  I  ever  saw  him,  under  the 
eaves  of  his  paternal  dwelling.  It  was  in 
the  fine  lane  leading  from  the  High  Street 

to  the  back  of college,  here  W— 

kept  his  rooms.  He  seemed  thoughtful, 
and  more  reconciled.  I  ventured  to 
rally  him — finding  him  in  a  better  mood — 
upon  a  representation  of  the  Artist  Evan- 
gelist, which  the  old  man,  whose  affairs 
were  beginning  to  flourish,  had  caused  to 
be  set  up  in  a  splendid  sort  of  frame  over 
his  really  handsome  shop,  either  as  a 
token  of  prosperity,  or  badge  of  gratitude 

to  his  saint.    W looked  up  at  the 

Luke,  and,  like  Satan,  "knew  his  mounted 
sign — and  fled."  A  letter  on  his  father's 
table  the  next  morning,  announced  that 
he  had  accepted  a  commission  hi  a  regi- 
ment about  to  embark  for  Portugal.  He 
was  among  the  first  who  perished  before 
the  walls  of  St.  Sebastian. 

I  do  not  know  how,  upon  a  subject 
which  I  began  with  treating  half  seriously, 
I  should  have  fallen  upon  a  recital  so 
eminently  painful;  but  this  theme  of  poor 
relationship  is  replete  with  so  much 
matter  for  tragic  as  well  as  comic  associa- 
tions, that  it  is  difficult  to  keep  the  ac- 
count distinct  without  blending.  The 
earliest  impressions  which  I  received  on 
this  matter,  are  certainly  not  attended 
with  anything  painful,  or  very  humiliat- 
ing, in  the  recalling.  At  my  father's 
table  (no  very  splendid  one)  was  to  be 
found,  every  Saturday,  the  mysterious 
figure  of  an  aged  gentleman,  clothed  hi 
neat  black,  of  a  sad  yet  comely  appear- 
ance. His  deportment  was  of  the  essence 
of  gravity;  his  words  few  or  none;  and  I 


ESSAYS 


was  not  to  make  a  noise  in  his  presence. 
I  had  little  inclination  to  have  done  so — 
for  my  cue  was  to  admire  in  silence.    A 
particular  elbow  chair  was  appropriated 
to  him,  which  was  in  no  case  to  be  violated. 
A  peculiar  sort  of  sweet  pudding,  which 
appeared  on  no  other  occasion,   distin- 
guished the  days  of  his  coming.    I  used 
to  think  him  a  prodigiously  rich  man. 
All  I  could  make  out  of  him  was,  that  he 
and  my  father  had  been  schoolfellows  a 
world  ago  at  Lincoln,  and  that  he  came 
from  the  Mint.    The  Mint  I  knew  to  be 
a  place  where  all  the  money  we  3  coined — 
and  I  thought  he  was  the  owner  of  all  that 
money.    Awful  ideas  of  the  Tower  twined 
themselves  about  his  presence.  He  seemed 
above   human   infirmities   and   passions. 
A  sort  of  melancholy  grandeur  invested 
him.    From   some   inexplicable   doom   I 
fancied  him  obliged  to  go  about  in  an 
eternal  suit  of  mourning;  a  captive — a 
stately  being,  let  out  of  the  Tower  on 
Saturdays.    Often  have  I  wondered  at 
the  temerity  of  my  father,  who,  in  spite 
of  an  habitual  general  respect  which  we  all 
in  common  manifested  towards  him,  would 
venture  now  and  then  to  stand  up  against 
him  in  some   argument,   touching  their 
youthful  days.    The  houses  of  the  ancient 
city  of  Lincoln  are  divided  (as  most  of  my 
readers  know)  between  the  dwellers  on 
the  hill,  and  in  the  valley.    This  marked 
distinction   formed   an   obvious   division 
between  the  boys  who  lived  above  (how- 
ever brought  together  in  a  common  school) 
and  the  boys  whose  paternal  residence 
was  on  the  plain;  a  sufficient  cause  of 
hostility  in  the  code  of  these  young  Gro- 
tiuses.    My  father  had  been  a  leading 
Mountaineer;  and  would  still  maintain 
the  general  superiority,  in  skill  and  hardi- 
hood, of  the  Above  Boys  (his  own  faction) 
over  the  Below  Boys  (so  were  they  called), 
of  which  party  his  contemporary  had  been 
a  chieftain.     Many  and  hot  were  the  skir- 
mishes on  this  topic— the  only  one  upon 
which  the  old  gentleman  was  ever  brought 
out— and  bad  blood  bred;  even  sometimes 
almost    to    the    recommencement    (so   I 
expected)  of  actual  hostilities.    But  my 
father,  who  scorned  to  insist  upon  advan- 


tages, generally  contrived  to  turn  the  con- 
versation upon  some  adroit  by-commen- 
dation of  the  old  Minster;  in  the  general 
preference    of    which,    before    all    other 
cathedrals  hi  the  island,  the  dweller  on  the 
hill,  and  the  plain-born,  could  meet  on  a 
conciliating   level,   and   lay   down   their 
less  important  differences.    Once  only  I 
saw  the  old  gentleman  really  ruffled,  and 
I  remembered  with  anguish  the  thought 
that  came  over  me:  "Perhaps  he  will 
never  come  here  again."    He  had  been 
pressed  to  take  another  plate  of  the  viand, 
which  I  have  already  mentioned  as  the  in- 
dispensable   concomitant    of    his    visits. 
He  had  refused  with  a  resistance  amount- 
ing to  rigor,  when  my  aunt — an  old  Lin- 
colnian,  but  who  had  something  of  this 
hi  common  with  my  cousin  Bridget,  that 
she  would  sometimes  press  civility  out  of 
season — uttered  the  following  memorable 
application — "Do  take  another  slice,  Mr. 
Billet,  for  you  do  not  get  pudding  every 
day."    The  old  gentleman  said  nothing 
at  the  tune — but  he  took  occasion  hi  the 
course  of  the  evening,  when  some  argu- 
ment had  intervened  between  them  to 
utter  with  an  emphasis  which  chilled  the 
company,  and  which  chills  me  now  as  I 
write    it — "Woman,    you    are    superan- 
nuated."   John   Billet   did   not   survive 
long,  after  the  digesting  of  this  affront; 
but  he  survived  long  enough  to  assure  me 
that  peace  was  actually  restored!  and,  if  I 
remember  aright,  another  pudding  was 
discreetly  substituted  hi  the  place  of  that 
which  had  occasioned  the  offense.    He 
died  at  the  Mint  (anno  1781)  where  he 
had  long  held,  what  he  accounted,  a  com- 
fortable   independence;    and    with    five 
pounds,  fourteen  shillings,  and  a  penny, 
which  were  found  in  his  escritoire  after 
his  decease,  left  the  world,  blessing  God 
that  he  had  enough  to  bury  him,  and  that 
he  had  never  been  obliged  to  any  man  for 
a  sixpence.    This  was — a  Poor  Relation. 

GRACE  BEFORE   MEAT 

THE  custom  of  saying  grace  at  meals 
had,  probably,  its  origin  in  the  early  tunes 
of  the  world,  and  the  hunter-state  of  man 


452 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


when  dinners  were  precarious  things,  and 
a  full  meal  was  something  more  than  a 
common  blessing;  when  a  belly-full  was  a 
windfall,  and  looked  like  a  special  provi- 
dence. In  the  shouts  and  triumphal 
songs  with  which,  after  a  season  of  sharp 
abstinence,  a  lucky  booty  of  deer's  or 
goat's  flesh  would  naturally  be  ushered 
home,  existed,  perhaps,  the  germ  of  the 
modern  grace.  It  is  not  otherwise  easy 
to  be  understood,  why  the  blessing  of 
food — the  act  of  eating — should  have 
had  a  particular  expression  of  thanks- 
giving annexed  to  it,  distinct  from  that 
implied  and  silent  gratitude  with  which 
we  are  expected  to  enter  upon  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  many  other  various  gifts  and 
good  things  of  existence.  , , . 

I  own  that  I  am  disposed  to  say  grace 
upon  twenty  other  occasions  in  the  course 
of  the  day  besides  my  dinner.  I  want  a 
form  for  setting  out  upon  a  pleasant  walk, 
for  a  moonlight  ramble,  for  a  friendly 
meeting,  or  a  solved  problem.  Why 
have  we  none  for  books,  those  spiritual 
repasts — a  grace  before  Milton — a  grace 
before  Shakespeare — a  devotional  exer- 
cise proper  to  be  said  before  reading  the 
Fairy  Queen? — but,  the  received  ritual 
having  prescribed  these  forms  to  the  soli- 
tary ceremony  of  manducation,  I  shall 
confine  my  observations  to  the  experience 
which  I  have  had  of  the  grace,  properly 
so  called;  commending  my  new  scheme 
for  extension  to  a  niche  in  the  grand  philo- 
sophical, poetical,  and  perchance  in 
part  heretical,  liturgy,  now  compiling 
by  my  friend  Homo  Humanus,  for  the 
use  of  a  certain  snug  congregation  of 
Utopian  Rabelsesian  Christians,  no  matter 
where  assembled. 

The  form  then  of  the  benediction  before 
eating  has  its  beauty  at  a  poor  man's 
table,  or  at  the  simple  and  unpro vocative 
repasts  of  children.  It  is  here  that  the 
grace  becomes  exceedingly  graceful.  The 
indigent  man,  who  hardly  knows  whether 
he  shall  have  a  meal  the  next  day  or  not, 
sits  down  to  his  fare  with  a  present  sense 
of  the  blessing  which  can  be  but  feebly 
acted  by  the  rich,  into  whose  minds  the  con- 
ception of  wanting  a  dinner  could  never, 


but  by  some  extreme  theory,  have  entered. 
The  proper  end  of  food — the  animal 
sustenance — is  barely  contemplated  by 
them.  The  poor  man's  bread  is  his  daily 
bread,  literally  his  bread  for  the  day. 
Their  courses  are  perennial. 

Again,  the  plainest  diet  seems  the  fit- 
test to  be  preceded  by  the  grace.  That 
which  is  least  stimulative  to  appetite, 
leaves  the  mind  most  freed  for  foreign 
considerations.  A  man  may  feel  thankful, 
heartily  thankful,  over  a  dish  of  plain  mut- 
ton with  turnips,  and  have  leisure  to 
reflect  upon  the  ordinance  and  institution 
of  eating;  when  he  shall  confess  a  pertur- 
bation of  mind,  inconsistent  with  the  pur- 
poses of  the  grace,  at  the  presence  of  veni- 
son or  turtle.  When  I  have  sate  (a  rarus 
hospes)  at  rich  men's  tables,  with  the 
savory  soup  and  messes  steaming  up  the 
nostrils,  and  moistening  the  lips  of  the 
guests  with  desire  and  a  distracted  choice, 
I  have  felt  the  introduction  of  that  cere- 
mony to  be  unseasonable.  With  the 
ravenous  orgasm  upon  you,  it  seems 
impertinent  to  interpose  a  religious  senti- 
ment. It  is  a  confusion  of  purpose  to 
mutter  out  praises  from  a  mouth  that 
waters.  The  heats  of  epicurism  put  out 
the  gentle  flame  of  devotion.  The  in- 
cense which  rises  round  is  pagan,  and  the 
belly-god  intercepts  it  for  his  own.  The 
very  excess  of  the  provision  beyond  the 
needs,  takes  away  all  sense  of  proportion 
between  the  end  and  means.  The  giver 
is  veiled  by  his  gifts.  You  are  startled 
at  the  injustice  of  returning  thanks — for 
what? — for  having  too  much,  while  so 
many  starve.  It  is  to  praise  the  Gods 
amiss. 

I  have  observed  this  awkwardness  felt, 
scarce  consciously  perhaps,  by  the  good 
man  who  says  the  grace.  I  have  seen  it  in 
clergymen  and  others — a  sort  of  shame — a 
sense  of  the  co-presence  of  circumstances 
which  unhallow  the  blessing.  After  a 
devotional  tone  put  on  for  a  few  seconds, 
how  rapidly  the  speaker  will  fall  into  his 
common  voice,  helping  himself  or  his 
neighbor,  as  if  to  get  rid  of  some  uneasy 
sensation  of  hypocrisy.  Not  that  the 
good  man  was  a  hypocrite,  or  was  not 


ESSAYS 


453 


most  conscientious  in  the  discharge  of 
the  duty;  but  he  felt  in  his  inmost 
mind  the  incompatibility  of  the  scene 
and  the  viands  before  him  with  the 
exercise  of  a  calm  and  rational  grati- 
tude. 

I  hear  somebody  exclaim, — Would  you 
have  Christians  sit  down  at  table,  like 
hogs  to  their  troughs,  without  remember- 
ing the  Giver? — no — I  would  have  them 
sit  down  as  Christians,  remembering  the 
Giver,  and  less  like  hogs.  Or  if  their 
appetites  must  run  riot,  and  they  must 
pamper  themselves  with  delicacies  for 
which  east  and  west  are  ransacked,  I 
would  have  them  postpone  their  bene- 
diction to  a  fitter  season,  when  appetite 
is  laid;  when  the  still  small  voice  can  be 
heard,  and  the  reason  of  the  grace  re- 
turns— with  temperate  diet  and  restricted 
dishes.  Gluttony  and  surfeiting  are  no 
proper  occasions  for  thanksgiving.  When 
Jeshurun  waxed  fat,  we  read  that  he 
kicked.  Virgil  knew  the  harpy-nature 
better,  when  he  put  into  the  mouth  of 
Celseno  any  thing  but  a  blessing.  We 
may  be  gratefully  sensible  of  the  delicious- 
ness  of  some  kinds  of  food  beyond  others, 
though  that  is  a  meaner  and  inferior 
gratitude:  but  the  proper  object  of  the 
grace  is  sustenance,  not  relishes;  daily 
bread,  not  delicacies;  the  means  of  life, 
and  not  the  means  of  pampering  the  car- 
cass. With  what  frame  or  composure,  I 
wonder,  can  a  city  chaplain  pronounce 
his  benediction  at  some  great  Hall  feast, 
when  he  knows  that  his  last  concluding 
pious  word — and  that,  in  all  probability, 
the  sacred  name  which  he  preaches — is 
but  the  signal  for  so  many  impatient  harp- 
ies to  commence  their  foul  orgies,  with  as 
little  sense  of  true  thankfulness  (which 
is  temperance)  as  those  Virgilian  fowl! 
It  is  well  if  the  good  man  himself  does 
not  feel  his  devotions  a  little  clouded, 
those  foggy  sensuous  steams  mingling 
with  and  polluting  the  pure  altar  sacri- 
fice. 

The  severest  satire  upon  full  tables  and 
surfeits  is  the  banquet  which  Satan,  in 
the  "Paradise  Regained,"  provides  for  a 
temptation  in  the  wilderness: — 


A  table  richly  spread  in  regal  mode, 
With  dishes  piled,  and  meats  of  noblest  sort 
And  savor;  beasts  of  chase,  or  fowl  of  game, 
In  pastry  built,  or  from  the  spit,  or  boiled, 
Gris-amber-steamed;  all  fish  from  sea  or  shore, 
Freshet  or  purling  brook,  for  which  was  drained 
Pontus,  and  Lucrine  bay,  and  Afric  coast. 

The  Tempter,  I  warrant  you,  thought 
these  cates  would  go  down  without  the 
recommendatory  preface  of  a  benediction. 
They  are  like  to  be  short  graces  where  the 
devil  plays  the  host. — I  am  afraid  the 
poet  wants  his  usual  decorum  in  this 
place.  Was  he  thinking  of  the  old  Roman 
luxury,  or  of  a  gaudy  day  at  Cambridge? 
This  was  a  temptation  fitter  for  a  Hefio- 
gabalus.  The  whole  banquet  is  too  civic 
and  culinary,  and  the  accompaniments 
altogether  a  profanation  of  that  deep, 
abstracted,  holy  scene.  The  mighty  artil- 
lery of  sauces,  which  the  cook-fiend  con- 
jures up,  is  out  of  proportion  to  the  simple 
wants  and  plain  hunger  of  the  guest.  He 
that  disturbed  him  in  his  dreams,  from 
his  dreams  might  have  been  taught  better. 
To  the  temperate  fantasies  of  the  fam- 
ished Son  of  God,  what  sort  of  feasts  pre- 
sented themselves? — He  dreamed  indeed, 

As  appetite  is  wont  to  dream, 

Of  meats  and  drinks,  nature's  refreshment  sweet. 

But  what  meats? — 

Him  thought,  he  by  the  brook  of  Cherith  stood, 
And  saw  the  ravens  with  their  horny  beaks 
Food  to  Elijah  bringing,  even  and  morn 
Though  ravenous,  taught  to  abstain  from  what 

they  brought; 

He  saw  the  prophet  also  how  he  fled 
Into  the  desert,  and  how  there  he  slept 
Under  a  juniper;  then  how  awaked 
He  found  his  supper  on  the  coals  prepared, 
And  by  the  angel  was  bid  rise  and  eat, 
And  ate  the  second  time  after  repose, 
The  strength  whereof  sufficed  him  forty  days: 
Sometimes,  that  with  Elijah  he  partook, 
Or  as  a  guest  with  Daniel  at  his  pulse. 

Nothing  in  Milton  is  finelier  fancied  than 
these  temperate  dreams  of  the  divine 
Hungerer.  To  which  of  these  two  vis- 
ionary banquets,  think  you,  would  the 
introduction  of  what  is  called  the  grace 
have  been  most  fitting  and  pertinent? 
Theoretically  I  am  no  enemy  to  graces; 


454 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


but  practically  I  own  that  (before  meat 
especially)  they  seem  to  involve  something 
awkward  and  unseasonable.  Our  appe- 
tites, of  one  or  another  kind,  are  excellent 
spurs  to  our  reason,  which  might  other- 
wise but  feebly  set  about  the  great  end 
of  preserving  and  continuing  the  species. 
They  are  fit  blessings  to  be  contemplated 
at  a  distance  with  a  becoming  gratitude: 
but  the  moment  of  appetite  (the  judicious 
reader  will  apprehend  me)  is,  perhaps, 
the  least  fit  season  for  that  exercise.  The 
Quakers  who  go  about  their  business,  of 
every  description,  with  more  calmness 
than  we,  have  more  title  to  the  use  of  these 
benedictory  prefaces.  I  have  always  ad- 
mired their  silent  grace,  and  the  more  be- 
cause I  have  observed  their  applications 
to  the  meat  and  drink  following  to  be  less 
passionate  and  sensual  than  ours.  They 
are  neither  gluttons  nor  wine-bibbers  as  a 
people.  They  eat,  as  a  horse  bolts  his 
chopt  hay,  with  indifference,  calmness, 
and  cleanly  circumstances.  They  neither 
grease  nor  slop  themselves.  When  I  see  a 
citizen  in  his  bib  and  tucker,  I  cannot 
imagine  it  a  surplice. 

I  am  no  Quaker  at  my  food.  I  confess 
I  am  not  indifferent  to  the  kinds  of  it, 
Those  unctuous  morsels  of  deer's  flesh 
were  not  made  to  be  received  with  dis- 
passionate services.  I  hate  a  man  who 
swallows  it,  affecting  not  to  know  what  he 
is  eating.  I  suspect  his  taste  in  higher 
matters.  I  shrink  instinctively  from  one 
who  professes  to  like  minced  veal.  There 
is  a  physiognomical  character  in  the  tastes 

for  food.     C holds  that  a  man  cannot 

have  a  pure  mind  who  refuses  apple- 
dumplings.  I  am  not  certain  but  he  is 
right.  With  the  decay  of  my  first  inno- 
cence, I  confess  a  less  and  less  relish  daily 
for  these  innocuous  cates.  The  whole 
vegetable  tribe  have  lost  their  gust  with 
me.  Only  I  stick  to  asparagus,  which  still 
seems  to  inspire  gentle  thoughts.  I  am 
impatient  and  querulous  under  culinary 
disappointments,  as  to  come  home  at  the 
dinner  hour,  for  instance,  expecting  some 
savory  mess,  and  to  find  one  quite  taste- 
less and  sapidless.  Butter  ill  melted — 
that  commonest  of  kitchen  failures — puts 


me  beside  my  tenor. — The  author  of  the 
"Rambler"  used  to  make  inarticulate  ani- 
mal noises  over  a  favorite  food.  Was  this 
the  music  quite  proper  to  be  preceded  by 
the  grace?  or  would  the  pious  man  have 
done  better  to  postpone  his  devotions  to  a 
season  when  the  blessing  might  be  con- 
templated with  less  perturbation?  I  quar- 
rel with  no  man's  tastes,  nor  would  set 
my  thin  face  against  those  excellent  things, 
in  their  way,  jollity  and  feasting.  But  as 
these  exercises,  however  laudable,  have 
little  in  them  of  grace  or  gracefulness,  a 
man  should  be  sure,  before  he  ventures  so 
to  grace  them,  that  while  he  is  pretending 
his  devotions  otherwise,  he  is  not  secretly 
kissing  his  hand  to  some  great  fish — his 
Dagon — with  a  special  consecration  of  no 
ark  but  the  fat  tureen  before  him.  Graces 
are  the  sweet  preluding  strains  to  the  ban- 
quets of  angels  and  children:  to  the  roots 
and  severer  repasts  of  the  Chartreuse: 
to  the  slender,  but  not  slenderly  acknowl- 
edged, refection  of  the  poor  and  humble 
man:  but  at  the  heaped-up  boards  of  the 
pampered  and  the  luxurious  they  become 
of  dissonant  mood,  less  timed  and  tuned 
to  the  occasion,  methinks,  than  the  noise 
of  those  better  befitting  organs  would  be, 
which  children  hear  tales  of,  at  Hog's 
Norton.  We  sit  too  long  at  our  meals, 
or  are  too  curious  in  the  study  of  them,  or 
too  disordered  in  our  application  to  them, 
or  engross  too  great  a  portion  of  these  good 
things  (which  should  be  common)  to  our 
share,  to  be  able  with  any  grace  to  say 
grace.  To  be  thankful  for  what  we  grasp 
exceeding  our  proportion  is  to  add  hypoc- 
risy to  injustice.  A  lurking  sense  of  this 
truth  is  what  makes  the  performance  of 
this  duty  so  cold  and  spiritless  a  service  at 
most  tables.  In  houses  where  the  grace 
is  as  indispensable  as  the  napkin,  who  has 
not  seen  that  never  settled  question  arise, 
as  to  who  shall  say  it;  while  the  good  man 
of  the  house  and  the  visitor  clergyman,  or 
some  other  guest  belike  of  next  authority 
from  years  or  gravity,  shall  be  bandying 
about  the  office  between  them  as  a  matter 
of  compliment,  each  of  them  not  unwilling 
to  shift  the  awkward  burthen  of  an  equivo- 
cal duty  from  his  own  shoulders? 


ESSAYS 


455 


I  once  drank  tea  in  company  with  two 
Methodist  divines  of  different  persuasions, 
whom  it  was  my  fortune  to  introduce  to 
each  other  for  the  first  tune  that  evening. 
Before  the  first  cup  was  handed  round, 
one  of  these  reverend  gentlemen  put  it  to 
the  other,  with  all  due  solemnity,  whether 
he  chose  to  say  any  thing.  It  seems  it  is 
the  custom  with  some  sectaries  to  put  up 
a  short  prayer  before  this  meal  also.  His 
reverend  brother  did  not  at  first  quite 
apprehend  him,  but  upon  an  explanation, 
with  little  less  importance  he  made  answer, 
that  it  was  not  a  custom  known  in  his 
church:  in  which  courteous  evasion  the 
other  acquiescing  for  good  manners'  sake, 
or  in  compliance  with  a  weak  brother, 
the  supplementary  or  tea-grace  was  waived 
altogether.  With  what  spirit  might  not 
Lucian  have  painted  two  priests,  of  his 
religion,  playing  into  each  other's  hands 
the  compliment  of  performing  or  omit- 
ting a  sacrifice, — the  hungry  God  mean- 
time, doubtful  of  his  incense,  with  expec- 
tant nostrils  hovering  over  the  two 
flamens,  and  (as  between  two  stools) 
going  away  in  the  end  without  his  supper. 

A  short  form  upon  these  occasions  is  felt 
to  want  reverence;  a  long  one,  I  am  afraid, 
cannot  escape  the  charge  of  impertinence. 
I  do  not  quite  approve  of  the  epigrammatic 
conciseness  with  which  that  equivocal 
wag  (but  my  pleasant  school-fellow) 
C.  V.  L.,  when  importuned  for  a 
grace,  used  to  inquire,  first  slily  leering 
down  the  table,  "Is  there  no  clergyman 
here?"  significantly  adding,  "Thank 
G — ."  Nor  do  I  think  our  old  form  at 
school  quite  pertinent,  where  we  were 
used  to  preface  our  bald  bread  and  cheese 
suppers  with  a  preamble,  connecting  with 
that  humble  blessing  a  recognition  of 
benefits  the  most  awful  and  overwhelm- 
ing to  the  imagination  which  religion  has 
to  offer.  Non  tune  illis  erat  locus.  I  re- 
member we  were  put  to  it  to  reconcile 
the  phrase  "good  creatures,"  upon  which 
the  blessing  rested,  with  the  fare  set 
before  us,  wilfully  understanding  that 
expression  in  a  low  and  animal  sense, — 
till  some  one  recalled  a  legend,  which  told 
how  in  the  golden  days  of  Christ's,  the 


young  Hospitallers  were  wont  to  have 
smoking  joints  of  roast  meat  upon  their 
nightly  boards,  till  some  pious  benefactor, 
commiserating  the  decencies,  rather  than 
the  palates,  of  the  children,  commuted 
our  flesh  for  garments,  and  gave  us — 
horresco  referens — trowsers  instead  of  mut- 
ton. 

THE  CONVALESCENT 

A  PRETTY  severe  fit  of  indisposition 
which,  under  the  name  of  a  nervous  fever, 
has  made  a  prisoner  of  me  for  some  weeks 
past,  and  is  but  slowly  leaving  me,  ha? 
reduced  me  to  an  incapacity  of  reflecting 
upon  any  topic  foreign  to  itself.  Ex- 
pect no  healthy  conclusions  from  me  this 
month,  reader;  I  can  offer  you  only  sick 
men's  dreams. 

And  truly  the  whole  state  of  sickness  is 
such;  for  what  else  is  it  but  a  magnificent 
dream  for  a  man  to  lie  a-bed,  and  draw 
daylight  curtains  about  him;  and,  shut- 
ting out  the  sun,  to  induce  a  total  oblivion 
of  all  the  works  which  are  going  on  under 
it?  To  become  insensible  to  all  the  opera- 
tions of  life,  except  the  beatings  of  one 
feeble  pulse? 

If  there  be  a  regal  solitude,  it  is  a  sick- 
bed. How  the  patient  lords  it  there;  what 
caprices  he  acts  without  control!  how 
king-like  he  sways  his  pillow — tumbling, 
and  tossing,  and  shifting,  and  lowering, 
and  thumping,  and  flatting,  and  molding 
it,  to  the  ever-varying  requisitions  of  his 
throbbing  temples. 

He  changes  sides  oftener  than  a  poli- 
tician. Now  he  lies  full  length,  then  half 
length,  obliquely,  transversely,  head  and 
feet  quite  across  the  bed;  and  none  ac- 
cuses him  of  tergiversation.  Within  the 
four  curtains  he  is  absolute.  They  are 
his  Mare  Clausum. 

How  sickness  enlarges  the  dimensions 
of  a  man's  self  to  himself!  he  is  his  own 
exclusive  object.  Supreme  selfishness  is 
inculcated  upon  him  as  his  only  duty. 
'Tis  the  Two  Tables  of  Law  to  him.  He 
has  nothing  to  think  of  but  how  to  get 
well.  What  passes  out  of  doors,  or  within 
them,  so  he  hear  not  the  jarring  of  them, 
affects  him  not. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


A  little  while  ago  he  was  greatly  con- 
cerned in  the  event  of  a  lawsuit,  which 
was  to  be  the  making  or  the  marring  of 
his  dearest  friend.  He  was  to  be  seen 
trudging  about  upon  this  man's  errand 
to  fifty  quarters  of  the  town  at  once,  jog- 
ging this  witness,  refreshing  that  solicitor. 
The  cause  was  to  come  on  yesterday.  He 
is  absolutely  as  indifferent  to  the  decis- 
ion as  if  it  were  a  question  to  be  tried  at 
Pekin.  Peradventure  from  some  whis- 
pering going  on  about  the  house,  not  in- 
tended for  his  hearing,  he  picks  up  enough 
to  make  him  understand  that  things  went 
cross-grained  in  the  court  yesterday,  and 
his  friend  is  ruined.  But  the  word 
"friend,"  and  the  word  "ruin,"  disturb 
him  no  more  than  so  much  jargon.  He  is 
not  to  think  of  anything  but  how  to  get 
better. 

What  a  world  of  foreign  cares  are 
merged  in  that  absorbing  consideration! 

He  has  put  on  the  strong  armor  of  sick- 
ness, he  is  wrapped  in  the  callous  hide  of 
suffering;  he  keeps  his  sympathy,  like 
some  curious  vintage,  under  trusty  lock 
and  key,  for  his  own  use  only. 

He  lies  pitying  himself,  honing  and 
moaning  to  himself;  he  yearneth  over  him- 
self; his  bowels  are  even  melted  within 
him,  to  think  what  he  suffers;  he  is  not 
ashamed  to  weep  over  himself. 

He  is  forever  plotting  how  to  do  some 
good  to  himself;  studying  little  stratagems 
and  artificial  alleviations. 

He  makes  the  most  of  himself;  dividing 
himself,  by  an  allowable  fiction,  into  as 
many  distinct  individuals  as  he  hath 
sore  and  sorrowing  members.  Sometimes 
he  meditates,  as  of  a  thing  apart  from  him, 
upon  his  poor  aching  head,  and  that  dull 
pain  which,  dozing  or  waking,  lay  in  it 
all  the  past  night  like  a  log,  or  palpable 
substance  of  pain,  not  to  be  removed 
without  opening  the  very  skull,  as  it 
seemed,  to  take  it  thence.  Or  he  pities 
his  long,  clammy,  attenuated  fingers. 
He  compassionates  himself  all  over;  and 
his  bed  is  a  very  discipline  of  humanity, 
and  tender  heart. 

He  is  his  own  sympathizer;  and  instinc- 
tively feels  that  none  can  so  well  perform 


that  office  for  him.  He  cares  for  few 
spectators  to  his  tragedy.  Only  that 
punctual  face  of  the  old  nurse  pleases  him, 
that  announces  his  broths  and  his  cordials. 
He  likes  it  because  it  is  so  unmoved,  and 
because  he  can  pour  forth  his  feverish 
ejaculations  before  it  as  unreservedly  as  to 
his  bed-post. 

To  the  world's  business  he  is  dead.  He 
understands  not  what  the  callings  and 
occupations  of  mortals  are;  only  he  has  a 
glimmering  conceit  of  some  such  thing, 
when  the  doctor  makes  his  daily  call; 
and  even  in  the  lines  on  that  busy  face 
he  reads  no  multiplicity  of  patients,  but 
solely  conceives  of  himself  as  the  sick  man. 
To  what  other  uneasy  couch  the  good 
man  is  hastening — when  he  slips  out  of  his 
chamber,  folding  up  his  thin  douceur  so 
carefully,  for  fear  of  rustling — is  no  spec- 
ulation which  he  can  at  present  entertain. 
He  thinks  only  of  the  regular  return  of  the 
same  phenomenon  at  the  same  hour  to- 
morrow. 

Household  rumors  touch  him  not. 
Some  faint  murmur,  indicative  of  life 
going  on  within  the  house,  soothes  him, 
while  he  knows  not  distinctly  what  it  is. 
He  is  not  to  know  anything,  not  to  think 
of  anything.  Servants  gliding  up  or  down 
the  distant  staircase,  treading  as  upon 
velvet,  gently  keep  his  ear  awake  so  long 
as  he  troubles  not  himself  further  than 
with  some  feeble  guess  at  their  errands. 
Exacter  knowledge  would  be  a  burden  to 
him;  he  can  just  endure  the  pressure  of 
conjecture.  He  opens  his  eye  faintly  at 
the  dull  stroke  of  the  muffled  knocker, 
and  closes  it  again  without  asking  "Who 
was  it?"  He  is  flattered  by  a  general 
notion  that  inquiries  are  making  after 
him,  but  he  cares  not  to  know  the  name  of 
the  inquirer.  In  the  general  stillness  and 
awful  hush  of  the  house  he  lies  in  state  and 
feels  his  sovereignty. 

To  be  sick  is  to  enjoy  monarchal  pre- 
rogatives. Compare  the  silent  tread  and 
quiet  ministry  almost  by  the  eye  only 
with  which  he  is  served,  with  the  careless 
demeanor,  the  unceremonious  goings  in 
and  out  (slapping  of  doors  or  leaving  them 
open),  of  the  very  same  attendants  when 


ESSAYS 


457 


he  is  getting  a  little  better,  and  you  will 
confess  that  from  the  bed  of  sickness 
(throne,  let  me  rather  call  it)  to  the  elbow- 
chair  of  convalescence  is  a  fall  from  dig- 
nity amounting  to  a  deposition. 

How  convalescence  shrinks  a  man  back 
co  his  pristine  stature !  Where  is  now  the 
space  which  he  occupied  so  lately,  in  his 
own,  in  the  family's,  eye? 

The  scene  of  his  regalities,  his  sick  room, 
which  was  his  presence  chamber,  where  he 
lay  and  acted  his  despotic  fancies,  how  is 
it  reduced  to  a  common  bedroom!  The 
trimness  of  the  very  bed  has  something 
pretty  and  unmeaning  about  it.  It  is 
made  every  day.  How  unlike  to  that 
wavy,  many  furrowed,  oceanic  surface 
which  it  presented  so  short  a  time  since, 
when  to  make  it  was  a  service  not  to  be 
thought  of  at  oftener  than  three  or  four 
day  revolutions,  when  the  patient  was 
with  pain  and  grief  to  be  lifted  for  a  little 
while  out  of  it,  to  submit  to  the  encroach- 
ments of  unwelcome  neatness  and  decen- 
cies which  his  shaken  frame  deprecated; 
then  to  be  lifted  into  it  again  for  another 
three  or  four  days'  respite,  to  flounder  it 
out  of  shape  again,  while  every  fresh  fur- 
row was  an  historical  record  of  some  shift- 
ing posture,  some  uneasy  turning,  some 
seeking  for  a  little  ease,  and  the  shrunken 
skin  scarce  told  a  truer  story  than  the 
crumpled  coverlid. 

Hushed  are  those  mysterious  sighs, 
those  groans,  so  much  more  awful  while 
we  knew  not  from  what  caverns  of  vast 
hidden  suffering  they  proceeded.  The 
Lernean  pangs  are  quenched.  The  riddle 
of  sickness  is  solved,  and  Philoctetes  is 
become  an  ordinary  personage. 

Perhaps  some  relic  of  the  sick  man's 
dream  of  greatness  survives  in  the  still 
lingering  visitations  of  the  medical  at- 
tendant. But  how  is  he,  too,  changed 
with  everything  else?  Can  this  be  he, 


this  man  of  news,  of  chat,  of  anecdote, 
of  everything  but  physic;  can  this  be  he 
who  so  lately  came  between  the  patient 
and  his  cruel  enemy  as  on  some  solemn 
embassy  from  nature,  erecting  herself 
into  a  high  mediating  party?  Pshaw! 
'tis  some  old  woman. 

Farewell  with  him  all  that  made  sickness 
pompous,  the  spell  that  hushed  the  house- 
hold, the  desert-like  stillness  felt  through- 
out its  inmost  chambers,  the  mute  atten- 
dance, the  inquiry  by  looks,  the  still 
softer  delicacies  of  self -attention,  the  sole 
and  single  eye  of  distemper  alonely  fixed 
upon  itself — world- thoughts  excluded,  the 
man  a  world  unto  himself ,  his  own  theater : 

What  a  speck  is  he  dwindled  into! 

In  this  flat  swamp  of  convalescence, 
left  by  the  ebb  of  sickness,  yet  far  enough 
from  the  terra  firma  of  established  health, 
your  note,  dear  Editor,  reached  me,  re- 
questing an  article.  In  Articulo  Mortis, 
thought  I;  but  it  is  something  hard,  and 
the  quibble,  wretched  as  it  was,  relieved 
me.  The  summons,  unseasonable  as  it 
appeared,  seemed  to  link  me  on  again  to 
the  petty  businesses  of  life,  which  I  had 
lost  sight  of,  a  gentle  call  to  activity 
however  trivial,  a  wholesome  weaning 
from  that  preposterous  dream  of  self- 
absorption,  the  puffy  state  of  sickness,  in 
which  I  confess  to  have  lain  so  long,  insen- 
sible to  the  magazines  and  monarchies 
of  the  world  alike,  to  its  laws  and  to  its 
literature.  The  hypochondriac  flatus  is 
subsiding;  the  acres  which  in  imagination 
I  had  spread  over — for  the  sick  man 
swells  in  the  sole  contemplation  of  his 
single  sufferings  till  he  becomes  a  Tityus 
to  himself — are  wasting  to  a  span,  and 
for  the  giant  of  self-importance,  which  I 
was  so  lately,  you  have  me  once  again  in 
my  natural  pretensions,  the  lean  and 
meager  figure  of  your  insignificant  essayist. 


458 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ARTHUR  SCHOPENHAUER  (1788-1860) 

Schopenhauer  was  the  chief  exponent  of  philosophical  pessimism  during  the  nineteenth  century. 
This  translation  from  the  German  was  made  by  Mrs.  Rudolf  Dircks. 


ON  THINKING  FOR  ONESELF 

THE  largest  library  in  disorder  is  not  so 
useful  as  a  smaller  but  orderly  one;  in  the 
same  way  the  greatest  amount  of  knowl- 
edge, if  it  has  not  been  worked  out  in 
one's  own  mind,  is  of  less  value  than  a 
much  smaller  amount  that  has  been  fully 
considered.  For  it  is  only  when  a  man 
combines  what  he  knows  from  all  sides, 
and  compares  one  truth  with  another, 
that  he  completely  realizes  his  own  knowl- 
edge and  gets  it  into  his  power.  A  man 
can  only  think  over  what  he  knows,  there- 
fore he  should  learn  something;  but  a  man 
only  knows  what  he  has  pondered. 

A  man  can  apply  himself  of  his  own 
free  will  to  reading  and  learning,  while  he 
cannot  to  thinking.  Thinking  must  be 
kindled  like  a  fire  by  a  draught  and  sus- 
tained by  some  kind  of  interest  in  the 
subject.  This  interest  may  be  either  of  a 
purely  objective  nature  or  it  may  be 
merely  subjective.  The  latter  exists  in 
matters  concerning  us  personally,  but 
objective  interest  is  only  to  be  found  in 
heads  that  think  by  nature,  and  to  whom 
thinking  is  as  natural  as  breathing;  but 
they  are  very  rare.  This  is  why  there  is 
so  little  of  it  in  most  men  of  learning. 

The  difference  between  the  effect  that 
thinking  for  oneself  and  that  reading  has 
on  the  mind  is  incredibly  great;  hence  it  is 
continually  developing  that  original  dif- 
ference in  minds  which  induces  one  man  to 
think  and  another  to  read.  Reading 
forces  thoughts  upon  the  mind  which 
are  as  foreign  and  heterogeneous  to  the 
bent  and  mood  hi  which  it  may  be  for  the 
moment,  as  the  seal  is  to  the  wax  on  which 
it  stamps  its  imprint.  The  mind  thus 
suffers  total  compulsion  from  without;  it 
has  first  this  and  first  that  to  think  about, 
for  which  it  has  at  the  time  neither  in- 
stinct nor  liking. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  a  man  thinks 


for  himself  he  follows  his  own  impulse, 
which  either  his  external  surroundings  or 
some  kind  of  recollection  has  determined 
at  the  moment.  His  visible  surroundings 
do  not  leave  upon  his  mind  one  single 
definite  thought  as  reading  does,  but 
merely  supply  him  with  material  and 
occasion  to  think  over  what  is  in  keeping 
with  his  nature  and  present  mood.  This 
is  why  much  reading  robs  the  mind  of  all 
elasticity;  it  is  like  keeping  a  spring  under 
a  continuous,  heavy  weight.  If  a  man 
does  not  want  to  think,  the  safest  plan  is 
to  take  up  a  book  directly  he  has  a  spare 
moment. 

This  practice  accounts  for  the  fact  that 
learning  makes  most  men  more  stupid 
and  foolish  than  they  are  by  nature, 
and  prevents  their  writings  from  being  a 
success;  they  remain,  as  Pope  has  said, 

"For  ever  reading,  never  to  be  read." — Dunciad, 
iii.  194. 

Men  of  learning  are  those  who  have  read 
the  contents  of  books.  Thinkers,  gen- 
iuses, and  those  who  have  enlightened 
the  world  and  furthered  the  race  of  men, 
are  those  who  have  made  direct  use  of 
the  book  of  the  world. 

Indeed,  it  is  only  a  man's  own  funda- 
mental thoughts  that  have  truth  and  life 
in  them.  For  it  is  these  that  he  really 
and  completely  understands.  To  read 
the  thoughts  of  others  is  like  taking  the 
remains  of  some  one  else's  meal,  like  put- 
ting on  the  discarded  clothes  of  a  stranger. 

The  thought  we  read  is  related  to  the 
thought  which  rises  in  us,  as  the  fossilized 
impress  of  a  prehistoric  plant  is  to  a  plant 
budding  out  in  spring. 

Reading  is  merely  a  substitute  for  one's 
own  thoughts.  A  man  allows  his  thoughts 
to  be  put  into  leading-strings. 

Further,  many  books  serve  only  to  show 
how  many  wrong  paths  there  are,  and  how 
widely  a  man  may  stray  if  he  allows  him- 


ESSAYS 


459 


self  to  be  led  by  them.  But  he  who  is 
guided  by  his  genius,  that  is  to  say,  he  who 
thinks  for  himself,  who  thinks  voluntarily 
and  rightly,  possesses  the  compass  where- 
with to  find  the  right  course.  A  man, 
therefore,  should  only  read  when  the 
source  of  his  own  thoughts  stagnates; 
which  is  often  the  case  with  the  best  of 
minds. 

It  is  sin  against  the  Holy  Spirit  to 
frighten  away  one's  own  original  thoughts 
by  taking  up  a  book.  It  is  the  same  as  a 
man  flying  from  Nature  to  look  at  a  mu- 
seum of  dried  plants,  or  to  study  a  beauti- 
ful landscape  in  copperplate.  A  man  at 
times  arrives  at  a  truth  or  an  idea  after 
spending  much  time  in  thinking  it  out  for 
himself,  linking  together  his  various 
thoughts,  when  he  might  have  found  the 
same  thing  in  a  book;  it  is  a  hundred 
times  more  valuable  if  he  has  acquired  it 
by  thinking  it  out  for  himself.  For  it  is 
only  by  his  thinking  it  out  for  himself 
that  it  enters  as  an  integral  part,  as  a 
living  member  into  the  whole  system  of 
his  thought,  and  stands  in  complete 
and  firm  relation  with  it;  that  it  is  funda- 
mentally understood  with  all  its  conse- 
quences, and  carries  the  color,  the  shade, 
the  impress  of  his  own  way  of  thinking; 
and  comes  at  the  very  moment,  just  as  the 
necessity  for  it  is  felt,  and  stands  fast  and 
cannot  be  forgotten.  This  is  the  perfect 
application,  nay,  interpretation  of  Goethe's 

"Was  du  ererbt  von  deinen  Vatern  hast 
Erwirb  es  um  es  zu  besitzen." 

The  man  who  thinks  for  himself  learns 
the  authorities  for  his  opinions  only  later 
on,  when  they  serve  merely  to  strengthen 
both  them  and  himself;  while  the  book- 
philosopher  starts  from  the  authorities 
and  other  people's  opinions,  therefrom 
constructing  a  whole  for  himself;  so  that 
he  resembles  an  automaton,  whose  com- 
position we  do  not  understand.  The 
other  man,  the  man  who  thinks  for  him- 
self, on  the  other  hand,  is  like  a  living  man 
as  made  by  nature.  His  mind  is  impreg- 
nated from  without,  which  then  bears 
and  brings  forth  its  child.  Truth  that 
has  been  merely  learned  adheres  to  us  like 


an  artificial  limb,  a  false  tooth,  a  waxen 
nose,  or  at  best  like  one  made  out  of  an- 
other's flesh;  truth  which  is  acquired  by 
thinking  for  oneself  is  like  a  natural  mem- 
ber: it  alone  really  belongs  to  us.  Here 
we  touch  upon  the  difference  between  the 
thinking  man  and  the  mere  man  of  learn- 
ing. Therefore  the  intellectual  acquire- 
ments of  the  man  who  thinks  for  himself 
are  like  a  fine  painting  that  stands  out  full 
of  life,  that  has  its  light  and  shade  correct, 
the  tone  sustained,  and  perfect  harmony 
of  color.  The  intellectual  attainments  of 
the  merely  learned  man,  on  the  contrary, 
resemble  a  big  palette  covered  with  every 
color,  at  most  systematically  arranged, 
but  without  harmony,  relation,  and 
meaning. 

Reading  is  thinking  with  some  one  else's 
head  instead  of  one's  own.  But  to  think 
for  oneself  is  to  endeavor  to  develop  a 
coherent  whole,  a  system,  even  if  it  is  not 
a  strictly  complete  one.  Nothing  is  more 
harmful  than,  by  dint  of  continual 
reading,  to  strengthen  the  current  of 
other  people's  thoughts.  These  thoughts, 
springing  from  different  minds,  belonging 
to  different  systems,  bearing  different 
colors,  never  flow  together  of  themselves 
into  a  unity  of  thought,  knowledge,  in- 
sight, or  conviction,  but  rather  cram  the 
head  with  a  Babylonian  confusion  of 
tongues;  consequently  the  mind  becomes 
overcharged  with  them  and  is  deprived 
of  all  clear  insight  and  almost  disorganized. 
This  condition  of  things  may  often  be  dis- 
cerned in  many  men  of  learning,  and  it 
makes  them  inferior  in  sound  under- 
standing, correct  judgment,  and  practical 
tact  to  many  illiterate  men,  who,  by  the 
aid  of  experience,  conversation,  and  a 
little  reading,  have  acquired  a  little 
knowledge  from  without  and  made  it 
always  subordinate  to  and  incorporated 
it  with  their  own  thoughts. 

The  scientific  thinker  also  does  this  to 
a  much  greater  extent.  Although  he 
requires  much  knowledge  and  must  read 
a  great  deal,  his  mind  is  nevertheless 
strong  enough  to  overcome  it  all,  to  assim- 
ilate it,  to  incorporate  it  with  the  system  of 
his  thoughts,  and  to  subordinate  it  to  the 


460 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


organic  relative  unity  of  his  insight,  which 
is  vast  and  evergrowing.  By  this  means 
his  own  thought,  like  the  bass  in  an  organ, 
always  takes  the  lead  in  everything  and  is 
never  deadened  by  other  sounds,  as  is  the 
case  with  purely  antiquarian  minds;  where 
all  sorts  of  musical  passages,  as  it  were, 
run  into  each  other,  and  the  fundamental 
tone  is  entirely  lost. 

The  people  who  have  spent  their  lives 
in  reading  and  acquired  their  wisdom  out 
of  books  resemble  those  who  have  ac- 
quired exact  information  of  a  country 
from  the  descriptions  of  many  travellers. 
These  people  can  relate  a  great  deal 
about  many  things;  but  at  heart  they  have 
no  connected,  clear,  sound  knowledge  of 
the  condition  of  the  country.  While 
those  who  have  spent  their  life  in  thinking 
are  like  the  people  who  have  been  to  that 
country  themselves;  they  alone  really 
know  what  it  is  they  are  saying,  know 
the  subject  in  its  entirety,  and  are  quite 
at  home  in  it. 

The  ordinary  book-philosopher  stands 
in  the  same  relation  to  a  man  who  thinks 
.for  himself  as  an  eye-witness  does  to  the 
historian;  he  speaks  from  his  own  direct 
comprehension  of  the  subject. 

Therefore  all  who  think  for  themselves 
hold  at  bottom  much  the  same  views; 
when  they  differ  it  is  because  they  hold 
different  points  of  view,  but  when  these 
do  not  alter  the  matter  they  all  say 
the  same  thing.  They  merely  express 
what  they  have  grasped  from  an  objective 
point  of  view.  I  have  frequently  hesi- 
tated to  give  passages  to  the  public  be- 
cause of  their  paradoxical  nature,  and 
afterwards  to  my  joyful  surprise  have 
found  the  same  thoughts  expressed  in  the 
works  of  great  men  of  long  ago. 

The  book-philosopher,  on  the  other 
hand,  relates  what  one  man  has  said  and 
another  man  meant,  and  what  a  third 
has  objected  to,  and  so  on.  He  compares, 
weighs,  criticizes,  and  endeavors  to  get 
at  the  truth  of  the  thing,  and  in  this  way 
resembles  the  critical  historian.  For  in- 
stance, he  will  try  to  find  out  whether 
Leibnitz  was  not  for  some  time  in  his  life 
a  follower  of  Spinoza,  etc.  The  curious 


student  will  find  striking  examples  of  what 
I  mean  in  Herbart's  "Analytical  Eluc 
dationof  Morality  and  Natural  Right,"anfl 
in  his  "Letters  on  Freedom."  It  surpris;  i 
us  that  such  a  man  should  give  himself  s-> 
much  trouble;  for  it  is  evident  that  if  h •• 
had  fixed  his  attention  on  the  matter  he 
would  soon  have  attained  his  object  by 
thinking  a  little  for  himself. 

But  there  is  a  small  difficulty  to  over- 
come; a  thing  of  this  kind  does  not  depend 
upon  our  own  will.  One  can  sit  down  at 
any  time  and  read,  but  not — think.  It  is 
with  thoughts  as  with  men:  we  cannot  al- 
ways summon  them  at  pleasure,  but  must 
wait  until  they  come.  Thought  about  a 
subject  must  come  of  its  own  accord  by  a 
happy  and  harmonious  union  of  external 
motive  with  mental  temper  and  applica- 
tion; and  it  is  precisely  that  which  never 
seems  to  come  to  these  people. 

One  has  an  illustration  of  this  in  matters 
that  concern  our  personal  interest.  If  we 
have  to  come  to  a  decision  on  a  thing  of 
this  kind  we  cannot  sit  down  at  any  parti- 
cular moment  and  thrash  out  the  reasons 
and  arrive  at  a  decision;  for  often  at  such 
a  time  our  thoughts  cannot  be  fixed,  but 
will  wander  off  to  other  things;  a  dislike 
to  the  subject  is  sometimes  responsible 
for  this.  We  should  not  use  force,  but 
wait  until  the  mood  appears  of  itself;  it 
frequently  comes  unexpectedly  and  even 
repeats  itself;  the  different  moods  which 
possess  us  at  the  different  times  throwing 
another  light  on  the  matter.  It  is  this 
long  process  which  is  understood  by  a 
ripe  resolution.  For  the  task  of  making 
up  our  mind  must  be  distributed;  much 
that  has  been  previously  overlooked  oc- 
curs to  us;  the  aversion  also  disappears, 
for,  after  examining  the  matter  closer,  it 
seems  much  more  tolerable  than  it  was  at 
first  sight. 

And  hi  theory  it  is  just  the  same:  a  man 
must  wait  for  the  right  moment;  even  the 
greatest  mind  is  not  always  able  to  think 
for  itself  at  all  times.  Therefore  it  is 
advisable  for  it  to  use  its  spare  moments 
in  reading,  which,  as  has  been  said,  is  a 
substitute  for  one's  own  thought;  in  this 
way  material  is  imported  to  the  mind  by 


ESSAYS 


461 


letting  another  think  for  us,  although  it  is 
alwavs  in  a  way  which  is  different  from  our 
own.  For  this  reason  a  man  should  not 
read  too  much,  in  order  that  his  mind  does 
not  become  accustomed  to  the  substitute, 
and  consequently  even  forget  the  matter 
in  question;  that  it  may  not  get  used  to 
walking  in  paths  that  have  already  been 
trodden,  and  by  following  a  foreign  course 
of  thought  forget  its  own.  Least  of  all 
should  a  man  for  the  sake  of  reading  en- 
tirely withdraw  his  attention  from  the 
real  world:  as  the  impulse  and  temper 
which  lead  one  to  think  for  oneself  pro- 
ceed oftener  from  it  than  from  reading; 
for  it  is  the  visible  and  real  world  in  its 
primitiveness  and  strength  that  is  the 
natural  subject  of  the  thinking  mind,  and 
is  able  more  easily  than  anything  else  to 
rouse  it.  After  these  considerations  it  will 
not  surprise  us  to  find  that  the  thinking 
man  can  easily  be  distinguished  from  the 
book-philosopher  by  his  marked  earnest- 
ness, directness,  and  originality,  the  per- 
sonal conviction  of  all  his  thoughts  and 
expressions:  the  book-philosopher,  on  the 
other  hand,  has  everything  second-hand; 
his  ideas  are  like  a  collection  of  old  rags 
obtained  anyhow;  he  is  dull  and  pointless, 
resembling  a  copy  of  a  copy.  His  style, 
which  is  full  of  conventional,  nay,  vulgar 
phrases  and  current  terms,  resembles  a 
small  state  where  there  is  a  circulation  of 
foreign  money  because  it  coins  none  of  its 
own. 

Mere  experience  can  as  little  as  reading 
take  the  place  of  thought.  Mere  empiri- 
cism bears  the  same  relation  to  thinking 
as  eating  to  digestion  and  assimilation. 
When  experience  boasts  that  it  alone,  by 
its  discoveries,  has  advanced  human  knowl- 
edge, it  is  as  though  the  mouth  boasted 
that  it  was  its  work  alone  to  maintain  the 
body. 

The  works  of  all  really  capable  minds 
are  distinguished  from  all  other  works 
by  a  character  of  decision  and  definite- 
ness,  and,  in  consequence,  of  lucidity  and 
clearness.  This  is  because  minds  like 
these  know  definitely  and  clearly  what  they 
wish  to  express — whether  it  be  in  prose, 
in  verse,  or  in  music.  Other  minds  are 


wanting  in  this  decision  and  clearness, 
and  therefore  may  be  instantly  recognized. 

The  characteristic  sign  of  a  mind  of  the 
highest  standard  is  the  directness  of  its 
judgment.  Everything  it  utters  is  the 
result  of  thinking  for  itself;  this  is  shown 
everywhere  in  the  way  it  gives  expression 
to  its  thoughts.  Therefore  it  is,  like  a 
prince,  an  imperial  director  in  the  realm 
of  intellect.  All  other  minds  are  mere 
delegates,  as  may  be  seen  by  their  style, 
which  has  no  stamp  of  its  own. 

Hence  every  true  thinker  for  himself  is 
so  far  like  a  monarch;  he  is  absolute,  and 
recognizes  nobody  above  him.  His  judg- 
ments, like  the  decrees  of  a  monarch, 
spring  from  his  own  sovereign  power  and 
proceed  directly  from  himself.  He  takes 
as  little  notice  of  authority  as  a  monarch 
does  of  a  command;  nothing  is  valid  unless 
he  has  himself  authorized  it.  On  the 
other  hand,  those  of  vulgar  minds,  whc 
are  swayed  by  all  kinds  of  current  opin- 
ions, authorities,  and  prejudices,  are  like 
the  people  which  in  silence  obey  the  law 
and  commands. 

The  people  who  are  so  eager  and  impa- 
tient to  settle  disputed  questions,  by  bring- 
ing forward  authorities,  are  really  glad 
when  they  can  place  the  understanding 
and  Insight  of  some  one  else  in  the  field  in 
place  of  their  own,  which  are  deficient. 
Their  number  is  legion.  For,  as  Seneca 
says,  "  Unusquisque  tnavult  credere,  quam 
judicare" 

The  weapon  they  commonly  use  in  their 
controversies  is  that  of  authorities:  they 
strike  each  other  with  it,  and  whoever  is 
drawn  into  the  fray  will  do  well  not  to  de- 
fend himself  with  reason  and  arguments; 
for  against  a  weapon  of  this  kind  they  are 
like  horned  Siegfrieds,  immersed  hi  a  flood 
of  incapacity  for  thinking  and  judging. 
They  will  bring  forward  their  authorities 
as  an  argumentum  ad  verecundiam  and  then 
cry  victoria. 

In  the  realm  of  reality,  however  fair, 
happy,  and  pleasant  it  may  prove  to  be, 
we  always  move  controlled  by  the  law  of 
gravity,  which  we  must  be  unceasingly 
overcoming.  While  in  the  realm  of 
thought  we  are  disembodied  spirits,  un- 


462 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


controlled  by  the  law  of  gravity  and  free 
from  penury. 

This  is  why  there  is  no  happiness  on 
earth  like  that  which  at  the  propitious 
moment  a  fine  and  fruitful  mind  finds  in 
itself. 

The  presence  of  a  thought  is  like  the 
presence  of  our  beloved.  We  imagine  we 
shall  never  forget  this  thought,  and  that 
this  loved  one  could  never  be  indifferent  to 
us.  But  out  of  sight  out  of  mind!  The 
finest  thought  runs  the  risk  of  being  irre- 
vocably forgotten  if  it  is  not  written  down, 
and  the  dear  one  of  being  forsaken  if  we 
do  not  marry  her. 

There  are  many  thoughts  which  are 
valuable  to  the  man  who  thinks  them; 
but  out  of  them  only  a  few  which  possess 
strength  to  produce  either  repercussion  or 
reflex  action,  that  is,  to  win  the  reader's 
sympathy  after  they  have  been  written 
down.  It  is  what  a  man  has  thought 
out  directly  for  himself  that  alone  has 
true  value.  Thinkers  may  be  classed  as 
follows:  those  who,  in  the  first  place,  think 
for  themselves,  and  those  who  think 
directly  for  others.  The  former  thinkers 
are  the  genuine,  they  think  for  themselves 
in  both  senses  of  the  word;  they  are  the 
true  philosophers;  they  alone  are  in  earnest. 
Moreover,  the  enjoyment  and  happiness 
of  their  existence  consist  in  thinking.  The 
others  are  the  sophists;  they  wish  to  seem, 
and  seek  their  happiness  in  what  they 
hope  to  get  from  other  people;  their 
earnestness  consists  in  this.  To  which 
of  these  two  classes  a  man  belongs  is 
soon  seen  by  his  whole  method  and  man- 
ner. Lichtenberg  is  an  example  of  the 
first  class,  while  Herder  obviously  be- 
longs to  the  second. 

When  one  considers  how  great  and  how 
close  to  us  the  problem  of  existence  is, — 
this  equivocal,  tormented,  fleeting,  dream- 
like existence — so  great  and  so  close  that 
as  soon  as  one  perceives  it,  it  overshadows 


and  conceals  all  other  problems  and  aims; 
— and  when  one  sees  how  all  men — with 
a  few  and  rare  exceptions — are  not  clearly 
conscious  of  the  problem,  nay,  do  not 
even  seem  to  see  it,  but  trouble  themselves 
about  everything  else  rather  than  this, 
and  live  on  taking  thought  only  for  the 
present  day  and  the  scarcely  longer  span 
of  theu*  own  personal  future,  while  they 
either  expressly  give  the  problem  up  or 
are  ready  to  agree  with  it,  by  the  aid  of 
some  system  of  popular  metaphysics, 
and  are  satisfied  with  this; — when  one,  I 
say,  reflects  upon  this,  so  may  one  be 
of  the  opinion  that  man  is  a  thinking  being 
only  in  a  very  remote  sense,  and  not 
feel  any  special  surprise  at  any  trait  of 
thoughtlessness  or  folly;  but  know,  rather, 
that  the  intellectual  outlook  of  the  normal 
man  indeed  surpasses  that  of  the  brute, — 
whose  whole  existence  resembles  a  con- 
tinual present  without  any  conscious- 
ness of  the  future  or  the  past — but  not 
to  such  an  extent  as  one  is  wont  to  sup- 
pose. 

And  corresponding  to  this,  we  find  in 
the  conversation  of  most  men  that  their 
thoughts  are  cut  up  as  small  as  chaff, 
making  it  impossible  for  them  to  spin  out 
the  thread  of  their  discourse  to  any 
length.  If  this  world  were  peopled  by 
really  thinking  beings,  noise  of  every  kind 
would  not  be  so  universally  tolerated,  as 
indeed  the  most  horrible  and  aimless  form 
of  it  is.  If  Nature  had  intended  man  to 
think  she  would  not  have  given  him 
ears,  or,  at  any  rate,  she  would  have 
furnished  them  with  airtight  flaps  like 
the  bat,  which  for  this  reason  is  to  be 
envied.  But,  in  truth,  man  is  like  the 
rest,  a  poor  animal,  whose  powers  are 
calculated  only  to  maintain  him  during 
his  existence;  therefore  he  requires  to 
have  his  ears  always  open  to  announce 
of  themselves,  by  night  as  by  day,  the 
approach  of  the  pursuer. 


ESSAYS 


463 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  (1795-1881) 

Carlyle's  fear  of  a  materialized  democracy,  built  on  a  foundation  of  industrial  science  wholly  lack- 
ing in  spiritual  values,  led  him  to  seek  the  strong  man,  or  Hero,  who  might  check  the  fearful  waste  of 
modern  life  and  harmonize  the  conflicting  elements  of  modern  society.     In  "  Past  and  Present "  he  en 
deavors  to  paint  by  way  of  contrast  the  ideal  monastic  community  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the  ugliness 
misery,  and  sordidness  of  modern  industry. 


PAST  AND  PRESENT 
BOOK  m 

CHAPTER  X 
PLUGSON  OF  UNDERSHOT 

ONE  thing  I  do  know:  Never,  on  this 
Earth,  was  the  relation  of  man  to  man 
long  carried  on  by  Cash-payment  alone. 
If,  at  any  time,  a  philosophy  of  Laissez- 
faire,  Competition  and  Supply-and-de- 
mand,  start  up  as  the  exponent  of  human 
relations,  expect  that  it  will  soon  end. 

Such  philosophies  will  arise:  for  man's 
philosophies  are  usually  the  "supple- 
ment of  his  practice;"  some  ornamental 
Logic-varnish,  some  outer  skin  of  Ar- 
ticulate intelligence,  with  which  he  strives 
to  render  his  dumb  Instinctive  Doings 
presentable  when  they  are  done.  Such 
philosophies  will  arise;  be  preached 
as  Mammon- Gospels,  the  ultimate  Evan- 
gel of  the  World;  be  believed  with  what  is 
called  belief,  with  much  superficial  bluster, 
and  a  kind  of  shallow  satisfaction  real  in 
its  way; — but  they  are  ominous  gospels! 
They  are  the  sure  and  even  swift,  fore- 
runner of  great  changes.  Expect  that 
the  old  System  of  Society  is  done,  is  dying 
and  fallen  into  dotage,  when  it  begins  to 
rave  in  that  fashion.  Most  Systems  that 
I  have  watched  the  death  of,  for  the  last 
three  thousand  years,  have  gone  just  so. 
The  Ideal,  the  True  and  Noble  that  was 
in  them  having  faded  out,  and  nothing 
now  remaining  but  naked  Egoism,  vul- 
turous Greediness,  they  cannot  live;  they 
are  bound  and  inexorably  ordained  by  the 
oldest  Destinies,  Mothers  of  the  Universe, 
to  die.  Curious  enough;  they  thereupon, 
as  I  have  pretty  generally  noticed,  devised 
some  light  comfortable  kind  of  "wine-and- 
walnuts  philosophy"  for  themselves,  this 
of  Supply-and-demand  or  another;  and 


keep  saying,  during  hours  of  mastication 
and  rumination,  which  they  call  hours 
of  meditation:  "Soul,  take  thy  ease;  it 
is  all  well  that  thou  art  a  vulture-soul;" 
— and  pangs  of  dissolution  come  upon 
them,  oftenest  before  they  are  aware! 

Cash-payment  never  was,  or  could  ex- 
cept for  a  few  years  be,  the  union-bond 
of  man  to  man.  Cash  never  yet  paid 
one  man  fully  his  deserts  to  another;  nor 
could  it,  nor  can  it,  now  or  henceforth 
to  the  end  of  the  world.  I  invite  his 
Grace  of  Castle-Rackrent  to  reflect  on 
this; — does  he  think  that  a  Land  Aris- 
tocracy when  it  becomes  a  Land  Auction- 
eership  can  have  long  to  live?  Or  that 
Sliding-scales  will  increase  the  vital 
stamina  of  it?  The  indomitable  Plug- 
son  too,  of  the  respected  Firm  of  Plug- 
son,  Hunks  and  Company,  in  St.  Dolly 
Undershot,  is  invited  to  reflect  on  this; 
for  to  him  also  it  will  be  new,  perhaps 
even  newer.  Bookkeeping  by  double 
entry  is  admirable,  and  records  several 
things  in  an  exact  manner.  But  the 
Mother-Destinies  also  keep  their  Tablets; 
in  Heaven's  Chancery  also  there  goes  on 
a  recording;  and  things,  as  my  Moslem 
friends  say,  are  "written  on  the  iron 
leaf." 

Your  Grace  and  Plugson,  it  is  like,  go 
to  Church  occasionally:  did  you  never  in 
vacant  moments,  with  perhaps  a  dull  par- 
son droning  to  you,  glance  into  your 
New  Testament,  and  the  cash-account 
stated  four  times  over,  by  a  kind  of  quad- 
ruple entry, — in  the  four  Gospels  there? 
I  consider  that  a  cash-account,  and  bal- 
ance-statement of  work  done  and  wages 
paid,  worth  attending  to.  Precisely  such, 
though  on  a  smaller  scale,  go  on  at  all 
moments  under  this  Sun;  and  the  state- 
ment and  balance  of  them  in  the  Plugson 
Ledgers  and  on  the  Tablets  of  Heaven's 


464 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Chancery  are  discrepant  exceedingly; — 
which  ought  really  to  teach,  and  to  have 
long  since  taught,  an  indomitable  common- 
sense  Plugson  of  Undershot,  much  more 
an  unattackable  wwcommon-sense  Grace 
of  Rackrent,  a  thing  or  two! — In  brief, 
we  shall  have  to  dismiss  the  Cash- Gospel 
rigorously  into  its  own  place:  we  shall  have 
to  know,  on  the  threshold,  that  either 
there  is  some  infinitely  deeper  Gospel, 
subsidiary,  explanatory  and  daily  and 
hourly  corrective,  to  the  Cash  one;  or 
else  that  the  Cash  one  itself  and  all 
others  are  fast  traveling! 

For  all  human  things  do  require  to 
have  an  Ideal  in  them;  to  have  some 
Soul  in  them,  as  we  said,  were  it  only 
to  keep  the  Body  unputrefied.  And 
\wonderful  it  is  to  see  how  the  Ideal  or 
Soul,  place  it  in  what  ugliest  Body  you 
may,  will  irradiate  said  Body  with  its 
own  nobleness;  will  gradually,  inces- 
santly, mold,  modify,  new-form  or  re- 
form said  ugliest  Body,  and  make  it  at 
last  beautiful,  and  to  a  certain  degree 
divine! — Oh,  if  you  could  dethrone  that 
Brute-god  Mammon,  and  put  a  Spirit-god 
in  his  place!  One  way  or  other,  he  must 
and  will  have  to  be  dethroned. 

Fighting,  for  example,  as  I  often  say 
to  myself,  Fighting  with  steel  murder- 
tools  is  surely  a  much  uglier  operation 
than  Working,  take  it  how  you  will. 
Yet  even  of  Fighting,  in  religious  Ab- 
bot Samson's  days,  see  what  a  Feudal- 
ism there  had  grown, — a  "glorious  Chiv- 
alry," much  besung  down  to  the  present 
day.  Was  not  that  one  of  the  "impos- 
siblest"  things?  Under  the  sky  is  no 
uglier  spectacle  than  two  men  with 
clenched  teeth,  and  hell-fire  eyes,  hack- 
ing one  another's  flesh,  converting  pre- 
cious living  bodies,  and  priceless  liv- 
ing souls,  into  nameless  masses  of  pu- 
trescence, useful  only  for  turnip-manure. 
How  did  a  Chivalry  ever  come  out  of 
that;  how  anything  that  was  not  hideous, 
scandalous,  infernal?  It  will  be  a  question 
worth  considering  by  and  by. 
il  I  remark,  for  the  present,  only  two 
''things:  first,  that  the  Fighting  itself  was 


not,  as  we  rashly  suppose  it,  a  Fighting 
without  cause,  but  more  or  less  with 
cause.  Man  is  created  to  fight;  he  is 
perhaps  best  of  all  definable  as  a  born 
soldier;  his  life  "a  battle  and  a  march," 
under  the  right  Gjeneral.  It  is  forever 
indispensable  for  a  man  to  fight:  now 
with  Necessity,  with  Barrenness,  Scar- 
city, with  Puddles,  Bogs,  tangled  For- 
ests, unkempt  Cotton; — now  also  with 
the  hallucinations  of  his  poor  fellow 
Men.  Hallucinatory  visions  rise  in  the 
head  of  my  poor  fellow  man;  make  him 
claim  over  me  rights  which  are  not  his. 
All  fighting,  as  we  noticed  long  ago, 
is  the  dusty  conflict  of  strengths,  each 
thinking  itself  the  strongest,  or,  in  other 
words,  the  justest; — of  Mights  which 
do  in  the  long-run,  and  forever  will  in 
this  just  Universe  in  the  long-run,  mean 
Rights.  In  conflict  the  perishable  part 
of  them,  beaten  sufficiently,  flies  off  into 
dust;  this  process  ended,  appears  the  im- 
perishable, the  true  and  exact. 

And  now  let  us  remark  a  second  thing: 
how,  in  these  baleful  operations,  a  noble 
devout-hearted  Chevalier  will  comport 
himself,  and  an  ignoble  godless  Bucanier 
and  Chactaw  Indian.  Victory  is  the  aim 
of  each.  But  deep  in  the  heart  of  the 
noble  man  it  lies  forever  legible,  that 
as  an  Invisible  Just  God  made  him,  so 
will  and  must  God's  Justice  and  this  only, 
were  it  never  so  invisible,  ultimately 
prosper  in  all  controversies  and  enter- 
prises and  battles  whatsoever.  What  an 
Influence;  ever-present, — like  a  Soul  in 
the  rudest  Caliban  of  a  body;  like  a  ray 
of  Heaven,  and  illuminative  creative 
Fiat-Lux,  in  the  wastest  terrestrial  Chaos ! 
Blessed  divine  Influence,  traceable  even 
in  the  horror  of  Battlefields  and  gar- 
ments rolled  in  blood:  how  it  ennobles 
even  the  Battlefield;  and,  in  place  of  a 
Chactaw  Massacre,  makes  it  a  Field  of 
Honor!  A  Battlefield  too,  is  great.  Con- 
sidered well,  it  is  a  kind  of  Quintessence 
of  Labor;  Labor  distilled  into  its  utmost 
concentration;  the  significance  of  years 
of  it  compressed  into  an  hour.  Here  too 
thou  shalt  be  strong,  and  not  in  muscle 
only,  if  thou  wouldst  prevail.  Here  too 


ESSAYS 


465 


thou  shalt  be  strong  of  heart,  noble  of 
soul;  thou  shalt  dread  no  pain  or  death, 
thou  shalt  not  love  ease  or  life;  in  rage, 
thou  shalt  remember  mercy,  justice; — 
thou  shalt  be  a  Knight  and  not  a  Chactaw, 
if  thou  wouldst  prevail!  It  is  the  rule  of 
all  battles,  against  hallucinating  fellow 
Men,  against  unkempt  Cotton,,  or  what- 
soever battles  they  may  be,  which  a  man 
in  this  world  has  to  fight. 

Howel  Davies  dyes  the  West-Indian 
Seas  with  blood,  piles  his  decks  with 
plunder;  approves  himself  the  expertest 
Seaman,  the  daringest  Seafighter:  but 
he  gains  no  lasting  victory,  lasting  victory 
is  not  possible  for  him.  Not,  had  he 
fleets  larger  than  the  combined  British 
Navy  all  united  with  him  in  bucaniering. 
He,  once  for  all,  cannot  prosper  in  his 
duel.  He  strikes  down  his  man:  yes; 
but  his  man,  or  his  man's  representative, 
has  no  notion  to  He  struck  down;  neither, 
though  slain  ten  times,  will  he  keep  so 
lying; — nor  has  the  Universe  any  notion 
to  keep  him  so  lying!  On  the  Contrary, 
the  Universe  and  he  have,  at  all  moments, 
all  manner  of  motives  to  start  up  again, 
and  desperately  fight  again.  Your  Na- 
poleon is  flung  out,  at  last,  to  St.  Helena; 
the  latter  end  of  him  sternly  compen- 
sating the  beginning.  The  Bucanier 
strikes  down  a  man,  a  hundred  or  a  mil- 
lion men:  but  what  profits  it?  He  has 
one  enemy  never  to  be  struck  down;  nay 
two  enemies:  Mankind  and  the  Maker  of 
Men.  On  the  great  scale  or  on  the 
small,  in  fighting  of  men  or  fighting  of 
difficulties,  I  will  not  embark  my  venture 
with  Howel  Davies:  it  is  not  the  Buca- 
nier, it  is  the  Hero  only  that  can  gain 
victory,  that  can  do  more  than  seem  to 
succeed.  These  things  will  deserve  medi- 
tating; for  they  apply  to  all  battle  and 
soldiership,  all  struggle  and  effort  what- 
soever in  this  Fight  of  Life.  It  is  a  poor 
Gospel,  Cash-Gospel  or  whatever  name 
it  have,  that  does  not,  with  clear  tone, 
uncontradictable,  carrying  conviction  to  all 
hearts,  forever  keep  men  in  mind  of  these 
things. 

Unhappily,  my  indomitable  friend  Plug- 
son  of  Undershot  has,  in  a  great  degree, 


forgotten  them;— as,  alas,  all  the  world 
has;  as,  alas,  our  very  Dukes  and  Soul- 
Overseers  have,  whose  special  trade  it 
was  to  remember  them!  Hence  these 
tears.—  Plugson,  who  has  indomitably 
spun  Cotton  merely  to  gain  thousands 
of  pounds,  I  have  to  call  as  yet  a  Buc- 
anier and  Chactaw;  till  there  come 
something  better,  still  more  indomitable 
from  him.  His  hundred  Thousand-pound 
Notes,  if  there  be  nothing  other,  are  to 
me  but  as  the  hundred  Scalps  in  a  Chac- 
taw wigwam.  The  blind  Plugson:  he 
was  a  Captain  of  Industry,  born  member 
of  the  Ultimate  genuine  Aristocracy  of 
this  Universe,  could  he  have  known  it! 
These  thousand  men  that  span  and  toiled 
round  him,  they  were  a  regiment  whom 
he  had  enlisted,  man  by  man;  to  make 
war  on  a  very  genuine  enemy:  Bareness 
of  back,  and  disobedient  Cotton-fiber, 
which  will  not,  unless  forced  to  it,  con- 
sent to  cover  bare  backs.  Here  is  a  most 
genuine  enemy;  over  whom  all  creatures 
will  wish  him  victory.  He  enlisted  his 
thousand  men;  said  to  them,  "Come, 
brothers,  let  us  have  a  dash  at  Cotton!" 
They  follow  with  cheerful  shout;  they 
gain  such  a  victory  over  Cotton  as  the 
Earth  has  to  admire  and  clap  hands  at: 
but,  alas,  it  is  yet  only  of  the  Bucanier 
or  Chactaw  sort, —  as  good  as  no  victory! 
Foolish  Plugson  of  St.  Dolly  Undershot: 
does  he  hope  to  become  illustrious  by 
hanging  up  the  scalps  in  his  wigwam,  the 
hundred  thousands  at  his  banker's,  and 
saying,  Behold  my  scalps?  Why,  Plug- 
son,  even  thy  own  host  is  all  in  mutiny: 
Cotton  is  conquered;  but  the  "bare 
backs" — are  worse  covered  than  ever! 
Indomitable  Plugson,  thou  must  cease  to 
be  a  Chactaw;  thou  and  others;  thou  thy- 
self, if  no  other! 

Did  William  the  Norman  Bastard, 
or  any  of  his  Taillefers,  Ironcutters,  man- 
age so?  Ironcutter,  at  the  end  of  the  cam- 
paign, did  not  turn-off  his  thousand 
fighters,  but  said  to  them:  "Noble 
fighters,  this  is  the  land  we  have  gained; 
be  I  Lord  in  it, — what  we  will  call  Law- 
ward,  maintainer  and  keeper  of  Heaven's 
Laws:  be  I  Law-ward,  or  in  brief  ortho- 


466 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


epy  Lord  in  it,  and  be  ye  Loyal  Men 
around  me  in  it;  and  we  will  stand  by 
one  another,  as  soldiers  round  a  captain, 
for  again  we  shall  have  need  of  one 
another!"  Plugson,  bucanier-like,  says 
to  them:  "Noble  spinners,  this  is  the 
Hundred  Thousand  we  have  gained, 
wherein  I  mean  to  dwell  and  plant  vine- 
yards; the  hundred  thousand  is  mine,  the 
three  and  sixpence  daily  was  yours:  adieu, 
noble  spinners;  drink  my  health  with 
this  groat  each,  which  I  give  you  over  and 
above!"  The  entirely  unjust  Captain  of 
Industry,  say  I;  not  Chevalier,  but  Buc- 
anier!  "Commercial  Law"  does  indeed 
acquit  him;  asks,  with  wide  eyes,  What 
else?  So  too  Howel  Davies  asks,  Was  it 
not  according  to  the  strictest  Bucanier 
Custom?  Did  I  depart  in  any  jot  or 
tittle  from  the  Laws  of  the  Bucaniers? 

After  all,  money,  as  they  say,  is  mi- 
raculous. Plugson  wanted  victory;  as 
Chevaliers  and  Bucaniers,  and  all  men 
alike  do.  He  found  money  recognized, 
by  the  whole  world  with  one  assent,  as 
the  true  symbol,  exact  equivalent  and 
synonym  of  victory; — and  here  we  have 
him,  a  grimbrowed,  indomitable  Bucanier, 
coming  home  to  us  with  a  "victory," 
which  the  whole  world  is  ceasing  to  clap 
hands  at!  The  whole  world,  taught 
somewhat  impressively,  is  beginning  to 
recognize  that  such  victory  is  but  half 
a  victory;  and  that  now,  if  it  please 
the  Powers,  we  must — have  the  other 
half! 

Money  is  miraculous.  What  miracu- 
lous facilities  has  it  yielded,  will  it  yield 
us;  but  also  what  never-imagined  con- 
fusions, obscurations  has  it  brought  in; 
down  almost  to  total  extinction  of  the 
moral-sense  in  large  masses  of  mankind! 
"Protection  of  property,"  of  what  is 
"mine,"  means  with  most  men  protection 
of  money, — the  thing  which,  had  I  a 
thousand  padlocks  over  it,  is  least  of  all 
mine;  is,  in  a  manner,  scarcely  worth 
calling  mine!  The  symbol  shall  be  held 
sacred,  defended  everywhere  with  tip- 
staves, ropes,  and  gibbets;  the  thing  sig- 
nified shall  be  composedly  cast  to  the 
dogs.  A  human  being  who  has  worked 


with  human  beings  clears  all  scores  with 
them,  cuts  himself  with  triumphant  com- 
pleteness forever  loose  from  them,  by 
paying  down  certain  shillings  and  pounds. 
Was  it  not  the  wages,  I  promised  you? 
There  they  are,  to  the  last  sixpence, — 
according  to  the  Laws  of  the  Bucaniers! 
—Yes,  indeed; — and,  at  such  times,  it 
becomes  imperatively  necessary  to  ask  all 
persons,  bucaniers  and  others,  Whether 
these  same  respectable  Laws  of  the 
Bucaniers  are  written  on  God's  eternal 
Heavens  at  all,  on  the  inner  Heart  of 
Man  at  all;  or  on  the  respectable  Buca- 
nier Logbook  merely,  for  the  convenience 
of  bucaniering  merely?  What  a  ques- 
tion;— whereat  Westminster  Hall  shud- 
ders to  its  driest  parchment;  and  on  the 
dead  wigs  each  particular  horsehair  stands 
on  end! 

The  Laws  of  Laissez-faire,  O  West- 
minster, the  laws  of  industrial  Captain 
and  industrial  Soldier,  how  much  more 
of  idle  Captain  and  industrial  Soldier, 
will  need  to  be  remodeled,  and  modified, 
and  rectified  in  a  hundred  and  a  hundred 
ways, — and  not  in  the  Sliding-scale  di- 
rection, but  in  the  totally  opposite  one! 
With  two  million  industrial  Soldiers  al- 
ready sitting  in  Bastilles,  and  five  mil- 
lion pining  on  potatoes,  methinks  West- 
minster cannot  begin  too  soon! — A  man 
has  other  obligations  laid  on  him,  in 
God's  Universe,  than  the  payment  of 
cash:  these  also  Westminster,  if  it  will 
continue  to  exist  and  have  board-wages, 
must  contrive  to  take  some  charge  of: 
— by  Westminster  or  by  another,  they 
must  and  will  be  taken  charge  of;  be, 
with  whatever  difficulty,  got  articulated, 
got  enforced,  and  to  a  certain  approxi- 
mate extent  put  in  practice.  And,  as 
I  say,  it  cannot  be  too  soon!  For  Mam- 
monism,  left  to  itself,  has  become  Midas- 
eared;  and  with  all  its  gold  mountains, 
sits  starving  for  want  of  bread:  and 
Dilettantism  with  its  partridge-nets,  in 
this  extremely  earnest  Universe  of  ours, 
is  playing  somewhat  too  high  a  game. 
"A  man  by  the  very  look  of  him  promises 
so  much":  yes;  and  by  the  rent-roll  of  him 
does  he  promise  nothing? — 


ESSAYS 


467 


Alas,  what  a  business  will  this  be, 
which  our  Continental  friends,  groping 
this  long  while  somewhat  absurdly  about 
it  and  about  it,  call  "Organization  of 
Labor"; — which  must  be  taken  out  of  the 
hand  of  absurd  windy  persons,  and  put 
into  the  hands  of  wise,  laborious,  modest 
and  valiant  men,  to  begin  with  it  straight- 
way; to  proceed  with  it,  and  succeed  in 
it  more  and  more,  if  Europe,  at  any  rate 
if  England,  is  to  continue  habitable  much 
longer.  Looking  at  the  kind  of  most 
noble  Corn-Law  Dukes  or  Practical  Duces 
we  have,  and  also  of  right  reverend  Soul- 
Overseers,  Christian  Spiritual  Duces  "on 
a  minimum  of  four  thousand  five  hundred," 
one's  hopes  are  a  little  chilled.  Courage, 
nevertheless;  there  are  many  brave  men  in 
England!  My  indomitable  Plugson, — 
nay  is  there  not  even  in  thee  some  hope? 
Thou  art  hitherto  a  Bucanier,  as  it  was 
written  and  prescribed  for  thee  by  an 
evil  world:  but  in  that  grim  brow,  in  that 
indomitable  heart  which  can  conquer 
Cotton,  do  there  not  perhaps  lie  other  ten- 
times  nobler  conquests? 

CHAPTER  XI 
LABOR 

FOR  there  is  a  perennial  nobleness,  and 
even  sacredness,  in  Work.  Were  he 
never  so  benighted,  forgetful  of  his  high 
calling,  there  is  always  hope  in  a  man  that 
actually  and  earnestly  works:  in  Idleness 
alone  is  there  perpetual  despair.  Work, 
never  so  Mammonish,  mean,  is  in  com- 
munication with  Nature;  the  real  desire 
to  get  Work  done  will  itself  lead  one  more 
and  more  to  truth,  to  Nature's  appoint- 
ments and  regulations,  which  are  truth. 

The  latest  Gospel  in  this  world  is, 
Know  thy  work  and  do  it.  "Know  thy 
self":  long  enough  has  that  poor  "self" 
of  thine  tormented  thee;  thou  wilt  never 
get  to  "know"  it,  I  believe!  Think  it  not 
thy  business,  this  of  knowing  thyself; 
thou  art  an  unknowable  individual:  know 
what  thou  canst  work  at;  and  work  at  it, 
like  a  Hercules!  That  will  be  thy  better 
plan. 

It  has  been  written,  "an  endless  signifi- 


cance lies  in  Work";  a  man  perfects  him- 
self by  working.  Foul  jungles  are  cleared 
away,  fair  seedfields  rise  instead,  and 
stately  cities;  and  withal  the  man  him- 
self first  ceases  to  be  a  jungle  and  foul 
unwholesome  desert  thereby.  Consider 
how,  even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  Labor, 
the  whole  soul  of  a  man  is  composed  into 
a  kind  of  real  harmony,  the  instant  he 
sets  himself  to  work!  Doubt,  Desire, 
Sorrow,  Remorse,  Indignation,  Despair 
itself,  all  these  like  helldogs  lie  beleaguer- 
ing the  soul  of  the  poor  dayworker,  as  of 
every  man:  but  he  bends  himself  with  free 
valor  against  his  task,  and  all  these  are 
stilled,  all  these  shrink  murmuring  far 
off  into  their  caves.  The  man  is  now  a 
man.  The  blessed  glow  of  Labor  in  him, 
is  it  not  as  purifying  fire,  wherein  all 
poison  is  burnt  up,  and  of  sour  smoke 
itself  there  is  made  bright  blessed  flame! 
Destiny,  on  the  whole,  has  no  other 
way  of  cultivating  us.  A  formless  Chaos, 
once  set  it  revolving,  grows  round  and 
ever  rounder;  ranges  itself,  by  mere  force 
of  gravity,  into  strata,  spherical  courses; 
is  no  longer  a  Chaos,  but  a  round  com- 
pacted World.  What  would  become  of 
the  Earth,  did  she  cease  to  revolve?  In 
the  poor  old  Earth,  so  long  as  she  re- 
volves, all  inequalities,  irregularities  dis- 
perse themselves;  all  irregularities  are 
incessantly  becoming  regular.  Hast  thou 
looked  on  the  Potter's  wheel, — one  of  the 
venerablest  objects;  old  as  the  Prophet 
Ezechiel  and  far  older?  Rude  lumps  of 
clay,  how  they  spin  themselves  up,  by 
mere  quick  whirling,  into  beautiful  cir- 
cular dishes.  And  fancy  the  most  assidu- 
ous Potter,  but  without  his  wheel;  reduced 
to  make  dishes  or  rather  amorphous 
botches,  by  mere  kneading  and  baking! 
Even  such  a  Potter  were  Destiny,  with  a 
human  soul  that  would  rest  and  lie  at 
ease,  that  would  not  work  and  spin!  Of 
an  idle  unrevolving  man  the  kindest 
Destiny,  like  the  most  assiduous  Potter 
without  wheel,  can  bake  and  knead  noth- 
ing other  than  a  botch;  let  her  spend  on 
him  what  expensive  coloring,  what  gild- 
ing and  enameling  she  will,  he  is  but  a 
botch.  Not  a  dish;  no,  a  bulging, 


468 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


kneaded,  crooked,  shambling,  squint-cor- 
nered, amorphous  botch, — a  mere  enam- 
eled vessel  of  dishonor!  Let  the  idle 
think  of  this. 

Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work; 
let  him  ask  no  other  blessedness.  He 
has  a  work,  a  life-purpose;  he  has  found 
it,  and  will  follow  it!  How,  as  a  free- 
flowing  channel,  dug  and  torn  by  noble 
force  through  the  sour  mud-swamp  of 
one's  existence,  like  an  ever-deepening 
river  there,  it  runs  and  flows; — draining 
off  the  sour  festering  water,  gradually 
from  the  root  of  the  remotest  grass- 
blade;  making,  instead  of  pestilential 
swamp,  a  green  fruitful  meadow  with  its 
clear-flowing  stream.  How  blessed  for 
the  meadow  itself,  let  the  stream  and  its 
value  be  great  or  small!  Labor  is  Life: 
from  the  inmost  heart  of  the  Worker 
rises  his  god-given  Force,  the  sacred  celes- 
tial Life-essence  breathed  into  him  by 
Almighty  God;  from  his  inmost  heart 
awakens  him  to  all  nobleness, — to  all 
knowledge,  "self-knowledge"  and  much 
else,  so  soon  as  Work  fitly  begins.  Knowl- 
edge? The  knowledge  that  will  hold  good 
in  working,  cleave  thou  to  that;  for  Nature 
herself  accredits  that,  says  Yea  to  that. 
Properly  thou  hast  no  other  knowledge 
but  what  thou  hast  got  by  working:  the 
the  rest  is  yet  all  a  hypothesis  of  knowl- 
edge; a  thing  to  be  argued  of  in  schools, 
a  thing  floating  in  the  clouds,  in  endless, 
logic-vortices,  till  we  try  it  and  fix  it. 
"Doubt,  of  whatever  kind,  can  be  ended 
by  Action  alone." 

And  again,  hast  thou  valued  Patience, 
Courage,  Perseverance,  Openness  to  light; 
readiness  to  own  thyself  mistaken,  to 
do  better  next  time?  All  these,  all 
virtues,  in  wrestling  with  the  dim  brute 
Powers  of  Fact,  in  ordering  of  thy  fel- 
lows in  such  wrestle,  there  and  elsewhere 
not  at  all,  thou  wilt  continually  learn. 
Set  down  a  brave  Sir  Christopher  in  the 
middle  of  black  ruined  Stone-heaps,  of 
foolish  unarchitectural  Bishops,  redtape 
Officials,  idle  Nell-Gwyn  Defenders  of  the 
Faith;  and  see  whether  he  will  ever  raise 
a  Paul's  Cathedral  out  of  all  that,  yea  or 


no!  Rough,  rude,  contradictory  are  all 
things  and  persons,  from  the  mutinous 
masons  and  Irish  hodmen,  up  to  the  idle 
Nell-Gwyn  Defenders,  to  blustering  red- 
tape  Officials,  foolish  unarchitectural  Bish- 
ops. All  these  things  and  persons  are 
there  not  for  Christopher's  sake  and  his 
Cathedral's;  they  are  there  for  their  own 
sake  mainly!  Christopher  will  have  to 
conquer  and  constrain  all  these, — if  he 
be  able.  All  these  are  against  him. 
Equitable  Nature  herself,  who  carries  her 
mathematics  and  architectonics  not  on  the 
face  of  her,  but  deep  in  the  hidden  heart 
of  her, — Nature  herself  is  but  partially  for 
him;  will  be  wholly  against  him,  if  he  con- 
strain her  not !  His  very  money,  where  is  it 
to  come  from?  The  pious  munificence  of 
England  lies  far-scattered,  distant,  un- 
able to  speak,  and  say,  "I  am  here"; 
— must  be  spoken  to  before  it  can  speak. 
Pious  munificence,  and  all  help,  is  so 
silent,  invisible  like  the  gods;  impedi- 
ment, contradictions  manifold  are  so 
loud  and  near!  O  brave  Sir  Christopher, 
trust  thou  in  those  notwithstanding,  and 
front  all  these;  understand  all  these;  by 
valiant  patience,  noble  effort,  insight,  by 
man's-strength,  vanquish  and  compel  all 
these, — and,  on  the  whole,  strike  down 
victoriously  the  last  topstone  of  that  Paul's 
Edifice;  thy  monument  for  certain  cen- 
turies, the  stamp  "Great  Man"  impressed 
very  legibly  on  Portland-stone  there! — 

Yes,  all  manner  of  help,  and  pious  re- 
sponse from  Men  or  Nature,  is  always 
what  we  call  silent;  cannot  speak  or  come 
to  light,  till  it  be  seen,  till  it  be  spoken 
to.  Every  noble  work  is  at  first  "im- 
possible." In  very  truth,  for  every  noble 
work  the  possibilities  will  lie  diffused 
through  Immensity;  inarticulate,  undis- 
coverable  except  to  faith.  Like  Gideon 
thou  shalt  spread  out  thy  fleece  at  the 
door  of  thy  tent;  see  whether  under  the 
wide  arch  of  Heaven  there  be  any  bounte- 
ous moisture,  or  none.  Thy  heart  and 
life-purpose  shall  be  as  a  miraculous 
Gideon's  fleece,  spread  out  in  silent  appeal 
to  Heaven:  and  from  the  kind  Immensi- 
ties, what  from  the  poor  unkind  Localities 
and  town  and  country  Parishes  there 


ESSAYS 


469 


never  could,  blessed  dew-moisture  to  suf- 
fice thee  shall  have  fallen! 

Work  is  of  a  religious  nature: — work 
is  of  a  brave  nature;  which  it  is  the  aim 
of  all  religion  to  be.  All  work  of  man 
is  as  the  swimmer's:  a  waste  ocean  threat- 
ens to  devour  him;  if  he  front  it  not 
bravely,  it  will  keep  its  word.  By  inces- 
sant wise  defiance  of  it,  lusty  rebuke 
and  buffet  of  it,  behold  how  it  loyally 
supports  him,  bears  him  as  its  conqueror 
along.  "It  is  so,"  says  Goethe,  "with  all 
things  that  man  undertakes  in  this 
world." 

Brave  Sea-captain,  Norse  Sea-king, — 
Columbus,  my  hero,  royalest  Sea-king  of 
all!  it  is  no  friendly  environment  this  of 
thine,  in  the  waste  deep  waters;  around 
thee  mutinous  discouraged  souls,  behind 
thee  disgrace  and  ruin,  before  thee  the 
unpenetrated  veil  of  Night.  Brother, 
these  wild  water-mountains,  bounding 
from  their  deep  bases  (ten  miles  deep,  I 
am  told),  are  not  entirely  there  on  thy 
behalf!  Meseems  they  have  other  work 
than  floating  thee  forward: — and  the 
huge  Winds,  that  sweep  from  Ursa  Major 
to  the  Tropics  and  Equators,  dancing 
their  giant-waltz  through  the  kingdoms  of 
Chaos  and  Immensity,  they  care  little 
about  filling  rightly  or  filling  wrongly  the 
small  shoulder-of-mutton  sails  in  this 
cockle-skiff  of  thine!  Thou  art  not 
among  articulate-speaking  friends,  my 
brother;  thou  art  among  immeasurable 
dumb  monsters,  tumbling,  howling  wide 
as  the  world  here.  Secret,  far  off,  in- 
visible to  all  hearts  but  thine,  there  lies 
a  help  in  them:  see  how  thou  wilt  get  at 
that.  Patiently  thou  wilt  wait  till  the 
mad  Southwester  spend  itself,  saving  thy- 
self by  dextrous  science  of  defense,  the 
while:  valiantly,  with  swift  decision,  wilt 
'thou  strike  in,  when  the  favoring  East, 
the  Possible,  springs  up.  Mutiny  of  men 
thou  wilt  sternly  repress;  weakness,  de- 
spondency, thou  wilt  cheerily  encourage: 
thou  wilt  swallow  down  complaint,  unrea- 
son, weariness,  weakness  of  others  and 
thyself; — how  much  wilt  thou  swallow 
down!  There  shall  be  a  depth  of  Silence 
in  thee,  deeper  than  this  Sea,  which  is 


but  ten  miles  deep:  a  Silence  unsound- 
able;  known  to  God  only.  Thou  shalt  be 
a  Great  Man.  Yes,  my  World-Soldier, 
thou  of  the  World  Marine-service, — thou 
wilt  have  to  be  greater  than  this  tumul- 
tuous unmeasured  World  here  round  thee 
is;  thou,  in  thy  strong  soul,  as  with 
wrestler's  arms,  shalt  embrace  it,  harness 
it  down;  and  make  it  bear  thee  on, — to 
new  Americas,  or  whither  God  wills! 

CHAPTER  xm 

DEMOCRACY 

IF  THE  Serene  Highnesses  and  Majesties 
do  not  take  note  of  that,  then,  as  I  per- 
ceive, that  will  take  note  of  itself!  The 
time  for  levity,  insincerity,  and  idle 
babble  and  play-acting,  in  all  kinds,  is 
gone  by;  it  is  a  serious,  grave  time.  Old 
long-vexed  questions,  not  yet  solved  in 
logical  words  or  parliamentary  laws,  are 
fast  solving  themselves  in  facts,  some-, 
what  unblessed  to  behold!  This  largest1 
of  questions,  this  question  of  Work  and 
Wages,  which  ought,  had  we  heeded 
Heaven's  voice,  to  have  begun  two  gene- 
rations ago  or  more,  cannot  be  delayed 
longer  without  hearing  Earth's  voice. 
"Labor"  will  verily  need  to  be  somewhat 
"organized,"  as  they  say, — God  knows 
with  what  difficulty.  Man  will  actually 
need  to  have  his  debts  and  earnings  a 
little  better  paid  by  man:  which,  let 
Parliaments  speak  of  them  or  be  silent 
of  them,  are  eternally  his  due  from  man, 
and  cannot,  without  penalty  and  at  length 
not  without  death-penalty,  be  withheld. 
How  much  ought  to  cease  among  us 
straightway;  how  much  ought  to  begin 
straightway,  while  the  hours  yet  are! 

Truly  they  are  strange  results  to  which 
this  of  leaving  all  to  "Cash";  of  quietly 
shutting-up  the  God's  Temple,  and  grad- 
ually opening  wide-open  the  Mammon's 
Temple,  with  "Laissez-faire,  and  Every 
man  for  himself," — have  led  us  in  these 
days!  We  have  Upper,  speaking  Classes, 
who  indeed  do  "speak"  as  never  man 
spake  before;  the  withered  flimsiness,  the 
godless  baseness  and  barrenness  of  whose 
Speech  might  of  itself  indicate  what  kind 


470 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


of  Doing  and  practical  Governing  went 
on  under  it!  For  speech  is  the  gaseous 
element  out  of  which  most  kinds  of  Prac- 
tice and  Performance,  especially  all  kinds 
of  moral  Performance,  condense  them- 
selves, and  take  shape;  as  the  one  is,  so 
will  the  other  be.  Descending,  accord- 
ingly, into  the  Dumb  Class  in  its  Stock- 
port  Cellars  and  Poor-Law  Bastilles,  have 
we  not  to  announce  that  they  also  are 
hitherto  unexampled  in  the  History  of 
Adam's  Posterity? 

Life  was  never  a  May-game  for  men: 
in  all  times  the  lot  of  the  dumb  millions 
bora  to  toil  was  defaced  with  manifold 
sufferings,  injustices,  heavy  burdens, 
avoidable  and  unavoidable;  not  play  at 
all,  but  hard  work  that  made  the  sinews 
sore  and  the  heart  sore.  As  bond-slaves, 
vttlani,  bordarii,  sochemanni,  nay  indeed 
as  dukes,  earls  and  kings,  men  were  often- 
times made  weary  of  their  life;  and  had  to 
say,  in  the  sweat  of  their  brow  and  of  their 
soul,  Behold,  it  is  not  sport,  it  is  grim 
earnest,  and  our  back  can  bear  no  more! 
Who  knows  not  what  massacrings  and 
harryings  there  have  been;  grinding,  long- 
continuing,  unbearable  injustices, — till  the 
heart  had  to  rise  in  madness,  and  some 
"Eu  Sachsen,  nimith  euer  sachses,  You 
Saxons,  out  with  your  gully-knives,  then!" 
You  Saxons,  some  "arrestment,"  partial 
"arrestment  of  the  Knaves  and  Dastards" 
has  become  indispensable! — The  page  of 
Dryasdust  is  heavy  with  such  details. 

And  yet  I  will  venture  to  believe  that  in 
no  time,  since  the  beginnings  of  Society, 
was  the  lot  of  those  same  dumb  millions 
of  toilers  so  entirely  unbearable  as  it  is 
even  in  the  days  now  passing  over  us. 
It  is  not  to  die,  or  even  to  die  of  hunger, 
that  makes  a  man  wretched;  many  men 
have  died;  all  men  must  die, — the  last 
exit  of  us  all  is  in  a  Fire-Chariot  of  Pain. 
But  it  is  to  live  miserable  we  know  not 
why;  to  work  sore  and  yet  gain  noth- 
ing; to  be  heart- worn,  weary,  yet  isolated, 
unrelated,  girt-iri  with  a  cold  universal 
Laissez-faire:  it  is  to  die  slowly  all  our 
life  long,  imprisoned  in  a  deaf,  dead,  In- 
finite Injustice,  as  in  the  accursed  iron 
belly  of  a  Phalaris'  Bull!  This  is  and  re- 


mains forever  intolerable  to  all  men 
whom  God  has  made.  Do  we  wonder  at 
French  Revolutions,  Chartisms,  Revolts 
of  Three  Days?  The  times,  if  we  will 
consider  them,  are  really  unexampled. 

Never  before  did  I  hear  of  an  Irish 
Widow  reduced  to  "prove  her  sisterhood 
by  dying  of  typhus-fever  and  infecting 
seventeen  persons," — saying  in  such  un- 
deniable way,  "You  see  I  was  your 
sister!"  Sisterhood,  brotherhood,  was 
often  forgotten;  but  not  till  the  rise  of 
these  ultimate  Mammon  and  Shotbelt 
Gospels  did  I  ever  see  it  so  expressly 
denied.  If  no  pious  Lord  or  Law-ward 
would  remember  it,  always  some  pious 
Lady  ("Hlaf-dig,"  Benefactress,  "Loaf- 
giveress,"  they  say  she  is, — blessings  on 
her  beautiful  heart!)  was  there,  with  mild 
mother- voice  and  hand,  to  remember  it; 
some  pious  thoughtful  Elder,  what  we 
now  call  "Prester,"  Presbyter  or  "Priest," 
was  there  to  put  all  men  in  mind  of  it, 
in  the  name  of  the  God  who  had  made  all. 

Not  even  in  Black  Dahomey  was  it 
ever,  I  think,  forgotten  to  the  typhus- 
fever  length.  Mungo  Park,  resourceless, 
had  sunk  down  to  die  under  the  Negro 
Village-Tree,  a  horrible  White  object 
in  the  eyes  of  all.  But  in  the  poor  Black 
Woman  and  her  daughter  who  stood 
aghast  at  him,  whose  earthly  wealth  and 
funded  capital  consisted  of  one  small 
Calabash  of  rice,  there  lived  a  heart 
richer  than  Laissez-faire:  they,  with  a 
royal  munificence,  boiled  their  rice  for 
him;  they  sang  all  night  to  him,  spinning 
assiduous  on  their  cotton  distaffs,  as  he 
lay  to  sleep:  "Let  us  pity  the  poor  white 
man;  no  mother  has  he  to  fetch  him  milk, 
no  sister  to  grind  him  corn!"  Thou  poor 
black  Noble  One, — thou  Lady  too:  did 
not  a  God  make  thee  too;  was  there  not 
in  thee  too  something  of  a  God! — 

Gurth,  born  thrall  of  Cedric  the  Saxon, 
has  been  greatly  pitied  by  Dryasdust  and 
others.  Gurth,  with  the  brass  collar 
round  his  neck,  tending  Cedric's  pigs  in 
the  glades  of  the  wood,  is  not  what  I  call 
an  exemplar  of  human  felicity:  but 
Gurth,  with  the  sky  above  him,  with  the 


ESSAYS 


free  air  and  tinted  boscage  and  umbrage 
round  him,  and  in  him  at  least  the  cer- 
tainty of  supper  and  social  lodging  when 
he  came  home;  Gurth  to  me  seems  happy, 
in  comparison  with  many  a  Lancashire 
and  Buckinghamshire  man  of  these  days, 
not  born  thrall  of  anybody!  Gurth's 
brass  collar  did  not  gall  him:  Cedric  de- 
served to  be  his  master.  The  pigs  were 
Cedric's,  but  Gurth  too  would  get  his  par- 
ings of  them.  Gurth  had  the  inexpress- 
ible satisfaction  of  feeling  himself  related 
indissolubly,  though  in  a  rude  brass-collar 
way,  to  his  fellow-mortals  in  this  Earth. 
He  had  superiors,  inferiors,  equals. — 
Gurth  is  now  "emancipated"  long  since; 
has  what  we  call  "Liberty."  Liberty,  I 
(Tarn  told,  is  a  divine  thing.  Liberty  when 
it  becomes  the  "Liberty  to  die  by  starva- 
tion" is  not  so  divine! 

Liberty?  The  true  liberty  of  a  man, 
you  would  say,  consisted  in  his  finding 
out,  or  being  forced  to  find  out  the  right 
path,  and  to  walk  thereon.  To  learn,  or 
to  be  taught,  what  work  he  actually  was 
able  for;  and  then  by  permission,  per- 
suasion, and  even  compulsion,  to  set 
about  doing  of  the  same!  That  is  his 
true  blessedness,  honor,  "liberty"  and 
maximum  of  wellbeing:  if  liberty  be  not 
that,  I  for  one  have  small  care  about 
liberty.  You  do  not  allow  a  palpable 
madman  to  leap  over  precipices;  you 
violate  his  liberty,  you  that  are  wise;  and 
keep  him,  were  it  in  strait-waistcoats, 
away  from  the  precipices!  Every  stupid, 
every  cowardly  and  foolish  man  is  but 
a  less  palpable  madman:  his  true  liberty 
were  that  a  wiser  man,  that  any  and 
every  wiser  man,  could,  by  brass  collars, 
or  in  whatever  milder  or  sharper  way, 
lay  hold  of  him  when  he  was  going  wrong, 
and  order  and  compel  him  to  go  a  little 
righter.  O,  if  thou  really  art  my  Senior, 
Seigneur,  my  Elder,  Presbyter  or  Priest, — 
if  thou  art  in  very  deed  my  Wiser,  may  a 
beneficent  instinct  lead  and  impel  thee 
to  "conquer"  me,  to  command  me!  If 
thou  do  know  better  than  I  what  is  good 
and  right,  I  conjure  thee  in  the  name  of 
God,  force  me  to  do  it;  were  it  by  never 
such  brass  collars,  whips  and  handcuffs, 


leave  me  not  to  walk  over  precipices! 
That  I  have  been  called,  by  all  the  News- 
papers, a  "free  man"  will  avail  me  little, 
if  my  pilgrimage  have  ended  in  death  and 
wreck.  O  that  the  Newspaper  had  called 
me  slave,  coward,  fool,  or  what  it  pleased 
their  sweet  voices  to  name  me,  and  I  had 
attained  not  death,  but  life! — Liberty  re- 
quires new  definitions. 

A  conscious  abhorrence  and  intolerance 
of  Folly,  of  Baseness,  Stupidity,  Pol- 
troonery and  all  that  brood  of  things, 
dwells  deep  in  some  men:  still  deeper  in 
others  an  wwconscious  abhorrence  and  in- 
tolerance, clothed  moreover  by  the  be- 
neficent Supreme  Powers  in  what  stout 
appetites,  energies,  egoisms  so-called,  are 
suitable  to  it; — these  latter  are  your 
Conquerors,  Romans,  Normans,  Russians, 
Indo-English;  Founders  of  what  we  call 
Aristocracies.  Which  indeed  have  they 
not  the  most  "divine  right"  to  found; — 
being  themselves  very  truly  "Apta-roc, 
BRAVEST,  BEST;  and  conquering  generally 
a  confused  rabble  of  WORST,  or  at  lowest, 
clearly  enough,  of  WORSE?  I  think  their 
divine  right,  tried,  with  affirmatory  ver- 
dict, in  the  greatest  Law-Court  known 
to  me,  was  good!  A  class  of  men  who 
are  dreadfully  exclaimed  against  by 
Dryasdust;  of  whom  nevertheless  be- 
neficent Nature  has  oftentimes  had  need; 
and  may,  alas,  again  have  need. 

When,  across  the  hundredfold  poor 
scepticisms,  trivialisms  and  constitutional 
cobwebberies  of  Dryasdust,  you  catch  any 
glimpse  of  a  William  the  Conqueror,  a 
Tancred  of  Hauteville  or  such  like,— do 
you  not  discern  veritably  some  rude  out- 
line of  a  true  God-made  King;  whom  not 
the  Champion  of  England  cased  in  tin, 
but  all  Nature  and  the  Universe  were 
calling  to  the  throne?  It  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  he  get  thither.  Nature 
does  not  mean  her  poor  Saxon  children  to 
perish,  of  obesity,  stupor  or  other  malady, 
as  yet:  a  stern  Ruler  and  Line  of  Rulers 
therefore  is  called  in, — a  stern  but  most 
beneficent  perpetual  House-Surgeon  is  by 
Nature  herself  called  in,  and  even  the 
appropriate  fees  are  provided  for  him! 
Dryasdust  talks  lamentably  about  Here- 


472 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ward  and  the  Fen  Counties;  fate  of  Earl 
Waltheof;  Yorkshire  and  the  North  re- 
duced to  ashes:  all  which  is  undoubtedly 
lamentable.  But  even  Dryasdust  ap- 
prises me  of  one  fact:  "A  child,  in  this 
William's  reign,  might  have  carried  a 
purse  of  gold  from  end  to  end  of  Eng- 
land." My  erudite  friend,  it  is  a  fact 
which  outweighs  a  thousand!  Sweep 
away  thy  constitutional,  sentimental  and 
other  cobwebberies;  look  eye  to  eye,  if 
thou  still  have  any  eye,  in  the  face  of  this 
big  burly  William  Bastard:  thou  wilt  see 
a  fellow  of  most  flashing  discernment, 
of  most  strong  lion-heart;  in  whom,  as 
it  were,  within  a  frame  of  oak  and  iron, 
the  gods  have  planted  the  soul  of  "a 
man  of  genius"!  Dost  thou  call  that 
nothing?  I  call  it  an  immense  thing! 
—Rage  enough  was  in  this  Willelmus 
Conquaestor,  rage  enough  for  his  occa- 
sions;— and  yet  the  essential  element  of 
him,  as  of  all  such  men,  is  not  scorching 
fire,  but  shining  illuminative  light.  Fire 
and  light  are  strangely  interchangeable; 
nay,  at  bottom,  I  have  found  them  differ- 
ent forms  of  the  same  most  godlike 
"elementary  substance"  in  our  world:  a 
thing  worth  stating  in  these  days.  The 
essential  element  of  this  Conquaestor  is, 
first  of  all,  the  most  sun-eyed  perception 
of  what  is  really  what  on  this  God's 
Earth; — which,  thou  wilt  find,  does  mean 
at  bottom  "Justice,"  and  "Virtues"  not  a 
few:  Conformity  to  what  the  Maker 
has  seen  good  to  make;  that,  I  sup- 
pose, will  mean  Justice  and  a  Virtue  or 
two? — 

Dost  thou  think  Willelmus  Conquaestor 
would  have  tolerated  ten  years'  jargon, 
one  hour's  jargon,  on  the  propriety  of 
killing  Cotton-manufactures  by  partridge 
Corn-Laws?  I  fancy,  this  was  not  the 
man  to  knock  out  of  his  night's  rest  with 
nothing  but  a  noisy  bedlamism  in  your 
mouth!  "Assist  us  still  better  to  bush 
the  partridges;  strangle  Plugson  who 
spins  the  shirts? — "Par  la  Splendeur  de 

Dieti!" Dost  thou   think  Willelmus 

Conquaestor,  in  this  new  time,  with 
Steamengine  Captains  of  Industry  on  one 
hand  of  him,  and  Joe-Manton  Captains 


of  Idleness  on  the  other,  would  have 
doubted  which  was  really  the  BEST; 
which  did  deserve  strangling,  and  which 
not? 

I  have  a  certain  indestructible  regard 
for  Willelmus  Conquaestor.  A  resident 
House-surgeon,  provided  by  Nature  for 
her  beloved  English  People,  and  even  fur- 
nished with  the  requisite  fees,  as  I  said; 
for  he  by  no  means  felt  himself  doing 
Nature's  work,  this  Willelmus,  but  his 
own  work  exclusively!  And  his  own 
work  withal  it  was;  informed  "par  la 
Splendeur  de  Dieu" — I  say,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  get  the  work  out  of  such  a  man, 
however  harsh  that  be!  When  a  world, 
not  yet  doomed  for  death,  is  rushing 
down  to  ever-deeper  Baseness  and  Confu- 
sion, it  is  a  dire  necessity  of  Nature's  to 
bring  in  her  ARISTOCRACIES,  her  BEST, 
even  by  forcible  methods.  When  their 
descendants  or  representatives  cease  en- 
tirely to  be  the  Best,  Nature's  poor  world 
will  very  soon  rush  down  again  to  Base- 
ness; and  it  becomes  a  dire  necessity  of 
nature's  to  cast  them  out.  Hence  French 
Revolutions,  Five-point  Charters,  Democ- 
racies, and  a  mournful  list  of  Etceteras, 
in  these  our  afflicted  times. 

To  what  extent  Democracy  has  now 
reached,  how  it  advances  irresistible  with 
ominous,  ever-increasing  speed,  he  that 
will  open  his  eyes  on  any  province  of 
human  affairs  may  discern.  Democracy 
is  everywhere  the  inexorable  demand  of 
these  ages,  swiftly  fulfilling  itself.  From 
the  thunder  of  Napoleon  battles,  to  the 
jabbering  of  Open-vestry  in  St.  Mary 
Axe,  all  things  announce  Democracy. 
A  distinguished  man,  whom  some  of  my 
readers  will  hear  again  with  pleasure, 
thus  writes  to  me  what  in  these  days  he 
notes  from  the  Wahngasse  of  Weissnicht- 
wo,  where  our  London  fashions  seem  to 
be  in  full  vogue.  Let  us  hear  the  Herr 
Teufelsdrockh  again,  were  it  but  the 
smallest  word ! 

I  "Democracy,  which  means  despair  of 
^finding  any  Heroes  to  govern  you,  and 
contented  putting-up  with  the  want  of 
them, — alas,  thou  too,  mein  Lieber,  seest 
well  how  close  it  is  of  kin  to  Atheism^ 


ESSAYS 


473 


and  other  sad  Isms:  he  who  discovers 
no  God  whatever,  how  shall  he  discover 
Heroes,  the  visible  Temples  of  God? — 
Strange  enough  meanwhile  it  is,  to  ob- 
serve with  what  thoughtlessness,  here  in 
our  rigidly  Conservative  Country,  men 
rush  into  Democracy  with  full  cry.  Be- 
yond doubt,  his  Excellenz  the  Titular- 
Herr  Ritter  Kauderwalsch  von  Pferde- 
fuss-Quacksalber,  he  our  distinguished 
Conservative  Premier  himself,  and  all 
but  the  thicker-headed  of  his  Party,  dis- 
cern Democracy  to  be  inevitable  as  death, 
and  are  even  desperate  of  delaying  it 
much! 

r  "You  cannot  walk  the  streets  without 
beholding  Democracy  announce  itself: 
the  very  Tailor  has  become,  if  not  prop- 
Verly  Sansculottic,  which  to  him  would  be 
ruinous,  yet  a  Tailor  unconsciously  sym- 
bolizing, and  prophesying  with  his  scis- 
sors, the  reign  of  Equality.  What  now  is 
our  fashionable  coat?  A  thing  of  super- 
finest  texture,  of  deeply  meditated  cut; 
with  Malines-lace  cuffs;  quilted  with 
gold;  so  that  a  man  can  carry,  without 
difficulty,  an  estate  of  land  on  his  back? 
Keineswegs,  By  no  manner  of  means! 
The  Sumptuary  Laws  have  fallen  into 
such  a  state  of  desuetude  as  was  never 
before  seen.  Our  fashionable  coat  is  an 
amphibium  between  barn-sack  and  dray- 
man's doublet.  The  cloth  of  it  is  studi- 
ously coarse;  the  color  a  speckled  soot- 
black  or  rust-brown  gray;  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  Peasant's.  And  for  shape, 
— thou  shouldst  see  it!  The  last  con- 
summation of  the  year  now  passing  over 
us  is  definable  as  Three  Bags;  a  big  bag 
for  the  body,  two  small  bags  for  the  arms, 
and  by  way  of  collar  a  hem!  The  first 
Antique  Cheruscan  who,  of  feltcloth  or 
bear's-hide,  with  bone  or  metal  needle, 
set  about  making  himself  a  coat,  before 
Tailors  had  yet  awakened  out  of  Noth- 
ing,— did  not  he  make  it  even  so?  A 
loose  wide  poke  for  body,  with  two  holes 
to  let  out  the  arms;  this  was  his  original 
coat:  to  which  holes  it  was  soon  visible 
that  two  small  loose  pokes,  or  sleeves, 
easily  appended,  would  be  an  improve- 
ment. 


"Thus  has  the  Tailor-art,  so  to  *peak, 
overset  itself,  like  most  other  things; 
changed  its  center -of -gravity;  whirled 
suddenly  over  from  zenith  to  nadir.1 
Your  Stulz,  with  huge  somerset,  vaults 
from  his  high  shopboard  down  to  the 
depths  of  primal  savagery, — carrying 
much  along  with  him!  For  I  will  invite 
thee  to  reflect  that  the  Tailor,  as  top- 
most ultimate  froth  of  Human  Society, 
is  indeed  swift-passing,  evanescent,  slip- 
pery to  decipher;  yet  significant  of  much, 
nay  of  all.  Topmost  evanescent  froth,  he 
is  churned-up  from  the  very  lees,  and 
from  all  intermediate  regions  of  the 
liquor.  The  general  outcome  he,  visible 
to  the  eye,  of  what  men  aimed  to  do,  and 
were  obliged  and  enabled  to  do,  in  this 
one  public  department  of  symbolizing 
themselves  to  each  other  by  covering  of 
their  skins.  A  smack  of  all  Human  Life 
lies  in  the  Tailor:  its  wild  struggles  to- 
wards beauty,  dignity,  freedom,  victory; 
and  how,  hemmed-in  by  Sedan  and  Hud- 
dersfield,  by  Nescience,  Dulness,  Pruri- 
ence, and  other  sad  necessities  and  laws 
of  Nature,  it  has  attained  just  to  this: 
Gray  savagery  of  Three  Sacks  with  a 
hem! 

"When  the  very  Tailor  verges  towards 
Sansculottism,  is  it  not  ominous?  The 
last  Divinity  of  poor  mankind  dethron- 
ing himself;  sinking  his  taper  too,  flame 
downmost,  like  the  Genius  of  Sleep  or  of 
Death;  admonitory  that  Tailor  time  shall 
be  no  more! — For,  little  as  one  could 
advise  Sumptuary  Laws  at  the  present 
epoch,  yet  nothing  is  clearer  than  that 
where  ranks  do  actually  exist,  strict  di- 
vision of  costumes  will  also  be  enforced; 
that  if  we  ever  have  a  new  Hierarchy 
and  Aristocracy,  acknowledged  veritably 
as  such,  for  which  I  daily  pray  Heaven, 
the  Tailor  will  reawaken;  and  be,  by 
volunteering  and  appointment,  con- 
sciously and  unconsciously,  a  safeguard 
of  that  same." — Certain  farther  observa- 
tions, from  the  same  invaluable  pen,  on 
our  never-ending  changes  of  mode,  our 
"perpetual  nomadic  and  even  ape-like 
appetite  for  change  and  mere  change" 
in  all  the  equipments  of  our  existence, 


474 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


and  the  "fatal  revolutionary  character" 
thereby  manifested,  we  suppress  for  the 
present.  It  may  be  admitted  that  De- 
mocracy, in  all  meanings  of  the  word,  is 
in  full  cajeer;  irresistible  by  any  Ritter 
Kauderwalsch  or  other  Son  of  Adam,  as 
times  go.  "Liberty"  is  a  thing  men  are 
determined  to  have. 

But  truly,  as  I  had  to  remark  in  the 
mean  while,  "the  liberty  of  not  being 
oppressed  by  your  fellow  man"  is  an 
indispensable,  yet  one  of  the  most  insig- 
nificant fractional  parts  of  Human  Lib- 
erty. No  man  oppresses  thee,  can  bid 
thee  fetch  or  carry,  come  or  go,  without 
reason  shown.  True;  from  all  men  thou 
art  emancipated:  but  from  Thyself  ajid 
from  the  Devil — ?  No  man,  wiser,  un- 
wiser,  can  make  thee  come  or  go:  but 
thy  own  futilities,  bewilderments,  thy 
false  appetites  for  Money,  Windsor 
Georges  and  suchlike?  No  man  op- 
presses thee,  0  free  and  independent 
Franchiser:  but  does  not  this  stupid 
Porter-pot  oppress  thee?  No  Son  of 
Adam  can  bid  thee  come  or  go;  but  this 
absurd  Pot  of  Heavy-wet,  this  can  and 
does!  Thou  art  the  thrall  not  of  Cedric 
the  Saxon,  but  of  thy  own  brutal  appe- 
tites and  this  scoured  dish  of  liquor. 
And  thou  pratest  of  thy  "liberty"? 
Thou  entire  blockhead! 

Heavy- wet  and  gin:  alas,  these  are  not 
the  only  kinds  of  thraldom.  Thou  who 
walkest  in  a  vain  show,  looking  out  with 
ornamental  dilettante  sniff  and  serene 
supremacy  at  all  Life  and  all  Death;  and 
amblest  jauntily;  perking  up  thy  poor 
talk  into  crotchets,  thy  poor  conduct  into 
fatuous  somnambulisms; — and  art  as  an 
"enchanted  Ape"  under  God's  sky,  where 
thou  mightest  have  been  a  man,  had 
proper  School-masters  and  Conquerors, 
and  Constables  with  cat-o'-nine  tails, 
been  vouchsafed  thee;  dost  thou  call  that 
"liberty"?  Or  your  unreposing  Mam- 
mon-worshipper again,  driven,  as  if  by 
Galvanisms,  by  Devils  and  Fixed-Ideas, 
who  rises  early  and  sits  late,  chasing 
the  impossible;  straining  every  faculty 
to  "fill  himself  with  the  east  wind,"- 
how  merciful  were  it,  could  you,  by  mild 


persuasion,  or  by  the  severest  tyranny 
so-called,  check  him  in  his  mad  path,  and 
turn  him  into  a  wiser  one!  All  pain- 
ful tyranny,  in  that  case  again,  were  but 
mild  "surgery";  the  pain  of  it  cheap 
as  health  and  life,  instead  of  galvanism 
and  fixed-idea,  are  cheap  at  any  price. 

Sure  enough,  of  all  paths  a  man  could 
strike  into,  there  is,  at  any  given  mo- 
ment, a  best  path  for  every  man;  a  thing 
which,  here  and  now,  it  were  of  all  things 
wisest  for  him  to  do; — which  could  he  be 
but  led  or  driven  to  do,  he  were  then  doing 
"like  a  man,"  as  we  phrase  it;  all  men 
and  gods  agreeing  with  him,  the  whole 
Universe  virtually  exclaiming  Well-done 
to  him!  His  success,  in  such  case,  were 
complete;  his  felicity  a  maximum.  This 
path,  to  find  this  path  and  walk  in  it,  is 
the  one  thing  needful  for  him.  Whatso- 
ever forwards  him  in  that,  let  it  come  to 
him  even  in  the  shape  of  blows  and  spurn- 
ings,  is  liberty:  whatsoever  hinders  him, 
were  it  wardmotes,  open-vestries,  poll- 
booths,  tremendous  cheers,  rivers  of 
heavy-wet,  is  slavery. 

The  notion  that  a  man's  liberty  con- 
sists in  giving  his  vote  at  election-hust- 
ings, and  saying,  "Behold,  now  I  too  have 
my  twenty-thousandth  part  of  a  Talker 
in  our  National  Palaver;  will  not  all  the 
gods  be  good  to  me?" — is  one  of  the 
pleasantest!  Nature  nevertheless  is  kind 
at  present;  and  puts  it  into  the  heads  of 
many,  almost  of  all.  The  liberty  espe- 
cially which  has  to  purchase  itself  by  social 
isolation,  and  each  man  standing  separate 
from  the  other,  having  "no  business  with 
him"  but  a  cash-account:  this  is  such  a 
liberty  as  the  Earth  seldom  saw; — as  the 
Earth  will  not  long  put  up  with,  recom- 
mend it  how  you  may.  This  liberty  turns 
out,  before  it  have  long  continued  in 
action,  with  all  men  flinging  up  their  caps 
round  it,  to  be,  for  the  Working  Millions 
a  liberty  to  die  by  want  of  food;  for  the 
Idle  Thousands  and  Units,  alas,  a  still 
more  fatal  liberty  to  live  in  want  of 
work;  to  have  no  earnest  duty  to  do  in 
this  God's-World  any  more.  What  be- 
comes of  a  man  in  such  predicament? 
Earth's  Laws  are  silent;  and  Heaven's 


ESSAYS 


475 


speak  in  a  voice  which  is  not  heard. 
KD  work,  and  the  ineradicable  need  of 
work  give  rise  to  new  very  wondrous 
life  philosophies,  new  very  wondrous  life 
practices!  Dilettantism,  Pococurantism, 
Beau-Brummelism,  with  perhaps  an  oc- 
casional, half-mad,  protesting  burst  of 
Byronism,  establish  themselves:  at  the 
end  of  a  certain  period, — if  you  go  back 
to  "the  Dead  Sea,"  there  is,  say  our 
Moslem  friends,  a  very  strange  "  Sabbath- 
day"  transacting  itself  there! — Brethren 
we  know  but  imperfectly  yet,  after  ages 
of  Constitutional  Government,  what  Lib- 
erty and  Slavery  are. 
/  Democracy,  the  chase  of  Liberty  in  that 
direction,  shall  go  its  full  course;  un- 
restrainable  by  him  of  Pferdefuss-Quack- 
salber,  or  any  of  his  household.  The 
Toiling  Millions  of  Mankind,  in  most 
vital  need  and  passionate  instinctive  de- 
sire of  Guidance,  shall  cast  away  False- 
Guidance;  and  hope,  for  an  hour,  that 
No-Guidance  will  suffice  them:  but  it  can 
be  for  an  hour  only.  The  smallest  item 
of  human  Slavery  is  the  oppression  of 
man  by  his  Mock-Superiors;  the  palpa- 
blest,  but  I  say  at  bottom  the  smallest. 
fLet  him  shake-off  such  oppression,  trample 
it  indignantly  under  his  feet;  I  blame  him 
not,  I  pity  and  commend  him.l  But  op- 
pression by  your  Mock  Superiors  well 
shaken  off,  the  grand  problem  yet  re- 
mains to  solve:  j/That  of  finding  govern- 
ment by  your  Real-Superiors!!  Alas,  how 
shall  we  ever  learn  the  solution  of  that- 
benighted,  bewildered,  sniffing,  sneering, 
godforgetting  unfortunates  as  we  are? 
It  is  a  work  for  centuries;  to  be  taught 
us  by  tribulations,  confusions,  insurrec- 
tions, obstructions;  who  knows  if  not  by 
conflagration  and  despair!  It  is  a  les- 
son inclusive  of  all  other  lessons;  the 
hardest  of  all  lessons  to  learn. 

One  thing  I  do  know:  those  Apes, 
chattering  on  the  branches  by  the  Dead 
Sea,  never  got  it  learned;  but  chatter 
there  to  this  day.  To  them  no  Moses 
need  come  a  second  tune;  a  thousand 
Moseses  would  be  but  so  many  painted 
Phantasms,  interesting  Fellow-Apes  of 
new  strange  aspect, — whom  they  would 


"invite  to  dinner,"  be  glad  to  meet  with 
in  lion-soirees.  To  them  the  voice  of 
Prophecy,  of  heavenly  monition,  is  quite 
ended.  They  chatter  there,  all  Heaven 
shut  to  them,  to  the  end  of  the  world. 
The  unfortunates!  Oh,  what  is  dying  of 
hunger,  with  honest  tools  in  your  hand, 
with  a  manful  purpose  in  your  heart,  and 
much  real  labor  lying  round  you  done, 
in  comparison?  .You  honestly  quit  your 
tools;  quit  a  most  muddy  confused  coil 
of  sore  work,  short  rations,  of  sorrows, 
dispiritments  and  contradictions,  having 
now  honestly  done  with  it  all; — and 
await,  not  entirely  in  a  distracted  manner, 
what  the  Supreme  Powers,  and  the  Si- 
lences and  the  Eternities  may  have  to 
say  to  you. 

A  second  thing  I  know:  This  lesson 
will  have  to  be  learned, — under  penal- 
ties! England  will  either  learn  it,  or 
England  also  will  cease  to  exist  among 
Nations.  England  will  either  learn  to 
reverence  its  Heroes,  and  discriminate 
them  from  its  Sham-Heroes  and  Valets 
and  gaslighted  Histrios;  and  to  prize 
them  as  the  audible  God's-voice,  amid  all 
inane  jargons  and  temporary  market- 
cries,  and  say  to  them  with  heart-loyalty, 
"Be  ye  King  and  Priest,  and  Gospel  and 
Guidance  for  us:"  or  else  England  will 
continue  to  worship  new  and  ever-new 
forms  of  Quackhood, — and  so,  with  what 
resiliences  and  reboundings  matters  little, 
go  down  to  the  Father  of  Quacks!  Can 
I  dread  such  things  of  England? 
Wretched,  thick-eyed,  gross-hearted  mor- 
tals, why  will  ye  worship  lies,  and  "  Stuffed 
Clothes-suits,  created  by  the  ninth- 
parts  of  men!"  It  is  not  your  purses 
that  suffer;  your  farm-rents,  your  com- 
merces, your  mill-revenues,  loud  as  ye 
lament  over  these;  no,  it  is  not  these 
alone,  but  a  far  deeper  than  these:  it  is 
your  souls  that  lie  dead,  crushed  down 
under  despicable  Nightmares,  Atheisms, 
Brain-fumes;  and  are  not  souls  at  all, 
but  mere  succedanea  for  salt  to  keep  your 
bodies  and  their  appetites  from  putrefy- 
ing! Your  cotton-spinning  and  thrice- 
miraculous  mechanism,  what  is  this  too, 
by  itself,  but  a  larger  land  of  Animalism? 


476 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Spiders  can  spin,  Beavers  can  build  and 
show  contrivance;  the  Ant  lays-up  ac- 
cumulation of  capital,  and  has,  for  aught 
I  know,  a  Bank  of  Antland.  If  there  is 
no  soul  in  man  higher  than  all  that,  did 
it  reach  to  sailing  on  the  cloud-rack  and 
spinning  seasand;  then  I  say,  man  is  but 
an  animal,  a  more  cunning  kind  of  brute: 
he  has  no  soul,  but  only  a  succedaneum 


for  salt.  Whereupon,  seeing  himself  to 
be  truly  of  the  beasts  that  perish,  he 
ought  to  admit  it,  I  think; — and  also 
straightway  universally  to  kill  himself; 
and  so,  in  a  manlike  manner  at  least 
end,  and  wave  these  brute-worlds  hrs 
dignified  farewell! — 

(1843) 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  (1803-1882) 

Emerson's  service  to  American  culture  in  freeing  it  from  bondage  to  Europe  cannot  be  over- 
estimated. His  counsel  to  the  young  thinker  to  rely  upon  his  own  genius,  to  cast  off  the  shackles  of 
convention,  to  stand  forth  before  the  world  as  a  courageous  thinker,  has  exercised  a  profound  influence 
upon  our  lives.  And  back  of  his  message  remains  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  human  of  personalities, 
one  of  the  purest  and  most  spiritual  figures  who  have  taken  their  place  in  the  great  world  of  letters. 
"Self- Reliance"  is  one  of  the  essays  that  give  his  message  of  spiritual  freedom  to  struggling  man.  The 
first  half  of  the  essay  is  given. 


SELF-RELIANCE 

I  READ  the  other  day  some  verses  written 
by  an  eminent  painter  which  were  original 
and  not  conventional.  Always  the  soul 
hears  an  admonition  in  such  lines,  let  the 
subject  be  what  it  may.  The  sentiment 
they  instill  is  of  more  value  than  any 
thought  they  may  contain.  To  believe 
your  own  thought,  to  believe  that  what  is 
true  for  you  in  your  private  heart  is  true 
for  all  men, — that  is  genius.  Speak 
your  latent  conviction,  and  it  shall  be  the 
universal  sense;  for  always  the  inmost 
becomes  the  outmost — and  our  first 
thought  is  rendered  back  to  us  by  the 
trumpets  of  the  Last  Judgment.  Famil- 
iar as  the  voice  of  the  mind  is  to  each, 
the  highest  merit  we  ascribe  to  Moses, 
Plato,  and  Milton  is  that  they  set  at  naught 
books  and  traditions,  and  spoke  not  what 
men,  but  what  they  thought.  A  man 
should  learn  to  detect  and  watch  that 
gleam  of  light  which  flashes  across  his 
mind  from  within,  more  than  the  luster  of 
the  firmament  of  bards  and  sages.  Yet 
he  dismisses  without  notice  his  thought, 
because  it  is  his.  In  every  work  of 
genius  we  recognize  our  own  rejected 
thoughts;  they  come  back  to  us  with  a 
certain  alienated  majesty.  Great  works 
of  art  have  no  more  affecting  lesson  for  us 
than  this.  They  teach  us  to  abide  by 


our  spontaneous  impression  with  good- 
humored  inflexibility  then  most  when  the 
whole  cry  of  voices  is  on  the  other  side. 
Else  to-morrow  a  stranger  will  say  with 
masterly  good  sense  precisely  what  we 
have  thought  and  felt  all  the  time,  and  we 
shall  be  forced  to  take  with  shame  our 
own  opinion  from  another. 

There  is  a  time  in  every  man's  education 
when  he  arrives  at  the  conviction  that 
envy  is  ignorance;  that  imitation  is  suicide; 
that  he  must  take  himself  for  better  for 
worse  as  his  portion;  that  though  the 
wide  universe  is  full  of  good,  no  kernel  of 
nourishing  corn  can  come  to  him  but 
through  his  toil  bestowed  on  that  plot  of 
ground  which  is  given  to  him  to  till.  The 
power  which  resides  in  him  is  new  in 
nature,  and  none  but  he  knows  what  that 
is  which  he  can  do,  nor  does  he  know  until 
he  has  tried.  Not  for  nothing  one  face, 
one  character,  one  fact,  makes  much  im- 
pression on  him,  and  another  none.  It  is 
not  without  preestablished  harmony,  this 
sculpture  in  the  memory.  The  eye  was 
placed  where  one  ray  should  fall,  that 
it  might  testify  of  that  particular  ray. 
Bravely  let  him  speak  the  utmost  syllable 
of  his  confession.  We  but  half  express 
ourselves,  and  are  ashamed  of  that  divine 
idea  which  each  of  us  represents.  It  may 
be  safely  trusted  as  proportionate  and  of 
good  issues,  so  it  be  faithfully  imparted, 


ESSAYS 


477 


but  God  will  not  have  his  work  made  mani- 
fest by  cowards.  It  needs  a  divine 
man  to  exhibit  anything  divine.  A  man 
is  relieved  and  gay  when  he  has  put  his 
heart  into  his  work  and  done  his  best; 
but  what  he  has  said  or  done  otherwise 
shall  give  him  no  peace.  It  is  a  deliver- 
ance which  does  not  deliver.  In  the  at- 
tempt his  genius  deserts  him;  no  muse 
befriends;  no  invention,  no  hope. 

Trust  thyself:  every  heart  vibrates  to 
that  iron  string.  Accept  the  place  the 
divine  providence  has  found  for  you,  the 
society  of  your  contemporaries,  the  con- 
nection of  events.  Great  men  have 
always  done  so,  and  confided  themselves 
childlike  to  the  genius  of  their  age,  be- 
traying their  perception  that  the  Eternal 
was  stirring  at  their  heart,  working 
through  their  hands,  predominating  in  all 
their  being.  And  we  are  now  men,  and 
must  accept  in  the  highest  mind  the  same 
transcendent  destiny;  and  not  pinched  hi  a 
corner,  not  cowards  fleeing  before  a  revolu- 
tion, but  redeemers  and  benefactors,  pious 
aspirants  to  be  noble  clay  under  the  Al- 
mighty effort,  let  us  advance  on  Chaos 
and  the  Dark. 

What  pretty  oracles  nature  yields  us  on 
this  text  in  the  face  and  behavior  of  chil- 
dren, babes,  and  even  brutes.  That  di- 
vided and  rebel  mind,  that  distrust  of  a 
sentiment  because  our  arithmetic  has 
computed  the  strength  and  means  op- 
posed to  our  purpose,  these  have  not. 
Their  mind  being  whole,  their  eye  is  as  yet 
unconquered,  and  when  we  look  hi  their 
faces,  we  are  disconcerted.  Infancy  con- 
forms to  nobody;  all  conform  to  it;  so 
that  one  babe  commonly  makes  four  or 
five  out  of  the  adults  who  prattle  and  play 
to  it.  So  God  has  armed  youth  and  pu- 
berty and  manhood  no  less  with  its  own 
piquancy  and  charm,  and  made  it  envi- 
able and  gracious  and  its  claims  not  to  be 
put  by,  if  it  will  stand  by  itself.  Do  not 
think  the  youth  has  no  force,  because  he 
cannot  speak  to  you  and  me.  Hark!  in 
the  next  room  who  spoke  so  clear  and  em- 
phatic? Good  Heaven!  it  is  he!  it  is  that 
very  lump  of  bashfulness  and  phlegm 
which  for  weeks  has  done  nothing  but  eat 


when  you  were  by,  and  now  rolls  out  these 
words  like  bell-strokes.  It  seems  he 
knows  how  to  speak  to  his  contemporaries. 
Bashful  or  bold  then,  he  will  know  how  to 
make  us  seniors  very  unnecessary. 

The  nonchalance  of  boys  who  are  sure 
of  a  dinner,  and  would  disdain  as  much  as  a 
lord  to  do  or  say  aught  to  conciliate  one, 
is  the  healthy  attitude  of  human  nature. 
How  is  a  boy  the  master  of  society! — 
independent,  irresponsible,  looking  out 
from  his  corner  on  such  people  and  facts 
as  pass  by,  he  tries  and  sentences  them  on 
their  merits,  in  the  swift,  summary  way 
of  boys,  as  good,  bad,  interesting,  silly, 
eloquent,  troublesome.  He  cumbers  him- 
self never  about  consequences,  about 
interests;  he  gives  an  independent,  gen- 
uine verdict.  You  must  court  him; 
he  does  not  court  you.  But  the  man  is  as 
it  were  clapped  into  jail  by  his  conscious- 
ness. As  soon  as  he  has  once  acted  or 
spoken  with  eclat  he  is  a  committed  person, 
watched  by  the  sympathy  or  the  hatred 
of  hundreds,  whose  affections  must  now 
enter  into  his  account.  There  is  no  Lethe 
for  this.  Ah,  that  he  could  pass  again 
into  his  neutral,  godlike  independence! 
Who  can  thus  lose  all  pledge  and,  having 
observed,  observe  again  from  the  same 
unaffected,  unbiased,  unbribable,  unaf- 
frighted  innocence,  must  always  be  for- 
midable, must  always  engage  the  poet's 
and  the  man's  regards.  Of  such  an  im- 
mortal youth  the  force  would  be  felt.  He 
would  utter  opinions  on  all  passing  affairs, 
which  being  seen  to  be  not  private  but 
necessary,  would  sink  like  darts  into  the 
ear  of  men  and  put  them  in  fear. 

These  are  the  voices  which  we  hear  in 
solitude,  but  they  grow  faint  and  inaud- 
ible as  we  enter  into  the  world.  Society 
everywhere  is  in  conspiracy  against  the 
manhood  of  every  one  of  its  members. 
Society  is  a  joint-stock  company,  in  which 
the  members  agree,  for  the  better  securing 
of  his  bread  to  each  shareholder,  to  sur- 
render the  liberty  and  culture  of  the  eater. 
The  virtue  in  most  request  is  conformity. 
Self-reliance  is  its  aversion.  It  loves  not 
realities  and  creators,  but  names  and 
customs. 


478 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


Whoso  would  be  a  man,  must  be  a  non- 
conformist. He  who  would  gather  im- 
mortal palms  must  not  be  hindered 
by  the  name  of  goodness,  but  must  ex- 
plore if  it  be  goodness.  Nothing  is  at 
last  sacred  but  the  integrity  of  our  own 
mind.  Absolve  you  to  yourself,  and  you 
shall  have  the  suffrage  of  the  world.  I 
remember  an  answer  which  when  quite 
young  I  was  prompted  to  make  to  a  val- 
ued adviser  who  was  wont  to  importune 
me  with  the  dear  old  doctrines  of  the 
church.  On  my  saying,  What  have  I  to 
do  with  the  sacredness  of  traditions,  if  I 
live  wholly  from  within?  my  friend  sug- 
gested,— "But  these  impulses  may  be 
from  below,  not  from  above."  I  replied, 
"They  do  not  seem  to  me  to  be  such;  but 
if  I  am  the  devil's  child,  I  will  live  then 
from  the  devil."  No  law  can  be  sacred 
to  me  but  that  of  my  nature.  Good  and 
bad  are  but  names  very  readily  transfer- 
able to  that  or  this;  the  only  right  is  what 
is  after  my  constitution;  the  only  wrong 
what  is  against  it.  A  man  is  to  carry 
himself  in  the  presence  of  all  opposition  as 
if  every  thing  were  titular  and  ephemeral 
but  he.  I  am  ashamed  to  think  how  easily 
we  capitulate  to  badges  and  names,  to 
large  societies  and  dead  institutions. 
Every  decent  and  well-spoken  individual 
affects  and  sways  me  more  than  is  right. 
I  ought  to  go  upright  and  vital,  and  speak 
the  rude  truth  in  all  ways.  If  malice 
and  vanity  wear  the  coat  of  philanthropy, 
shall  that  pass?  If  an  angry  bigot  as- 
sumes this  bountiful  cause  of  Abolition, 
and  comes  to  me  with  his  last  news  from 
Barbadoes,  why  should  I  not  say  to  him, 
"Go  love  thy  infant;  love  thy  wood-chop- 
per; be  good-natured  and  modest;  have 
that  grace;  and  never  varnish  your  hard, 
uncharitable  ambition  with  this  incredible 
tenderness  for  black  folk  a  thousand  miles 
off.  Thy  love  afar  is  spite  at  home." 
Rough  and  graceless  would  be  such  greet- 
ing, but  truth  is  handsomer  than  the  affec- 
tation of  love.  Your  goodness  must  have 
some  edge  to  it, — else  it  is  none.  The 
doctrine  of  hatred  must  be  preached,  as 
the  counteraction  of  the  doctrine  of  love, 
when  that  pules  and  whines.  I  shun 


father  and  mother  and  wife  and  brother 
when  my  genius  calls  me.  I  would  write 
on  the  lintels  of  the  door-post,  Whim. 
I  hope  it  is  somewhat  better  than  whim 
at  last,  but  we  cannot  spend  the  day  in 
explanation.  Expect  me  not  to  show 
cause  why  I  seek  or  why  I  exclude  com- 
pany. Then,  again,  do  not  tell  me,  as  a 
good  man  did  to-day,  of  my  obligation  to 
put  all  poor  men  in  good  situations.  Are 
they  my  poor?  I  tell  thee,  thou  foolish 
philanthropist,  that  I  grudge  the  dollar, 
the  dime,  tne  cent  I  give  to  such  men  as 
do  not  belong  to  me  and  to  whom  I  do 
not  belong.  There  is  a  class  of  persons  to 
whom  by  all  spiritual  affinity  I  am  bought 
and  sold;  for  them  I  will  go  to  prison  if 
need  be;  but  your  miscellaneous  popular 
charities;  the  education  at  college  of 
fools;  the  building  of  meeting-houses  to 
the  vain  end  to  which  many  now  stand; 
alms  to  sots,  and  the  thousandfold  Relief 
Societies; — though  I  confess  with  shame  I 
sometimes  succumb  and  give  the  dollar,  it 
is  a  wicked  dollar,  which  by-and-by  I 
shall  have  the  manhood  to  withhold. 

Virtues  are,  in  the  popular  estimate, 
rather  the  exception  than  the  rule.  There 
is  the  man  and  his  virtues.  Men  do  what 
is  called  a  good  action,  as  some  piece  of 
courage  or  charity,  much  as  they  would 
pay  a  fine  in  expiation  of  daily  non-ap- 
pearance on  parade.  Theur  works  are 
done  as  an  apology  or  extenuation  of  their 
living  in  the  world, — as  invalids  and  the 
insane  pay  a  high  board.  Their  virtues 
are  penances.  I  do  not  wish  to  expiate, 
but  to  live.  My  life  is  not  an  apology, 
but  a  life.  It  is  for  itself  and  not  for  a 
spectacle.  I  much  prefer  that  it  should  be 
of  a  lower  strain,  so  it  be  genuine  and  equal, 
than  that  it  should  be  glittering  and  un- 
steady. I  wish  it  to  be  sound  and  sweet, 
and  not  to  need  diet  and  bleeding.  My 
life  should  be  unique;  it  should  be  an 
alms,  a  battle,  a  conquest,  a  medicine.  I 
ask  primary  evidence  that  you  are  a  man, 
and  refuse  this  appeal  from  the  man  to  his 
actions.  I  know  that  for  myself  it  makes 
no  diff erence  whether  I  do  or  forbear  those 
actions  which  are  reckoned  excellent.  I 
cannot  consent  to  pay  for  a  privilege  where 


ESSAYS 


479 


I  have  intrinsic  right.  Few  and  mean  as 
my  gifts  may  be,  I  actually  am,  and  do 
not  need  for  my  own  assurance  or  the  assur- 
ance of  my  fellows  any  secondary  testimony. 
What  I  must  do  is  all  that  concerns  me, 
not  what  the  people  think.  This  rule, 
equally  arduous  in  actual  and  in  intellec- 
tual life,  may  serve  for  the  whole  distinc- 
tion between  greatness  and  meanness.  It 
is  the  harder  because  you  will  always 
find  those  who  think  they  know  what  is 
your  duty  better  than  you  know  it.  It  is 
easy  in  the  world  to  live  after  the  world's 
opinion;  it  is  easy  in  solitude  to  live  after 
our  own;  but  the  great  man  is  he  who  in 
the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps  with  perfect 
sweetness  the  independence  of  solitude. 

The  objection  to  conforming  to  usages 
that  have  become  dead  to  you  is  that  it 
scatters  your  force.  It  loses  your  time 
and  blurs  the  impression  of  your  character. 
If  you  maintain  a  dead  church,  contribute 
to  a  dead  Bible  Society,  vote  with  a  great 
party  either  for  the  Government  or  against 
it,  spread  your  table  like  base  house- 
keepers,— under  all  these  screens  I  have 
difficulty  to  detect  the  precise  man  you  are. 
And  of  course  so  much  force  is  withdrawn 
from  your  proper  life.  But  do  your 
thing,  and  1  shall  know  you.  Do  your 
work,  and  you  shall  reinforce  yourself. 
A  man  must  consider  what  a  blindman's- 
buff  is  this  game  of  conformity.  If  I  know 
your  sect  I  anticipate  your  argument.  I 
hear  a  preacher  announce  for  his  text 
and  topic  the  expediency  of  one  of  the 
institutions  of  his  church.  Do  I  not 
know  beforehand  that  not  possibly  can  he 
say  a  new  and  spontaneous  word?  Do  I 
not  know  that  with  all  this  ostentation  of 
examining  the  grounds  of  the  institution 
he  will  do  no  such  thing?  Do  I  not  know 
that  he  is  pledged  to  himself  not  to  look 
but  at  one  side,  the  permitted  side,  not  as 
a  man,  but  as  a  parish  minister?  He  is  a 
retained  attorney,  and  these  airs  of  the 
bench  are  the  emptiest  affectation.  Well, 
most  men  have  bound  their  eyes  with  one 
or  another  handkerchief,  and  attached 
themselves  to  some  one  of  these  commun- 
ities of  opinion.  This  conformity  makes 
them  not  false  in  a  few  particulars,  authors 


of  a  few  lies,  but  false  in  all  particulars. 
Their  every  truth  is  not  quite  true.  Their 
two  is  not  the  real  two,  their  four  not  the 
real  four:  so  that  every  word  they  say 
chagrins  us  and  we  know  not  where  to 
begin  to  set  them  right.  Meantime 
nature  is  not  slow  to  equip  us  in  the  prison- 
uniform  of  the  party  to  which  we  adhere. 
We  come  to  wear  one  cut  of  face  and  figure, 
and  acquire  by  degrees  the  gentlest  asinine 
expression.  There  is  a  mortifying  expe- 
rience in  particular,  which  does  not  fail  to 
wreak  itself  also  in  the  general  history;  I 
mean  "the  foolish  face  of  praise,"  the 
forced  smile  which  we  put  on  in  company 
where  we  do  not  feel  at  ease,  in  answer  to 
conversation  which  does  not  interest  us. 
The  muscles,  not  spontaneously  moved 
but  moved  by  a  low  usurping  wilfulness, 
grow  tight  about  the  outline  of  the  face, 
and  make  the  most  disagreeable  sensa- 
tion; a  sensation  of  rebuke  and  warning 
which  no  brave  young  man  will  suffer 
twice. 

For  non-conformity  the  world  whips 
you  with  its  displeasure.  And  therefore 
a  man  must  know  how  to  estimate  a  sour 
face.  The  bystanders  look  askance  on 
him  in  the  public  street  or  in  the  friend's 
parlor.  If  this  aversation  had  its  origin 
in  contempt  and  resistance  like  his  own  he 
might  well  go  home  with  a  sad  counte- 
nance; but  the  sour  faces  of  the  multitude, 
like  their  sweet  faces,  have  no  deep  cause, 
— disguise  no  god,  but  are  put  on  and  off 
as  the  wind  blows  and  a  newspaper 
directs.  Yet  is  the  discontent  of  the  mul- 
titude more  formidable  than  that  of  the 
senate  and  the  college.  It  is  easy  enough 
for  a  firm  man  who  knows  the  world  to 
brook  the  rage  of  the  cultivated  classes. 
Their  rage  is  decorous  and  prudent,  for 
they  are  timid,  as  being  very  vulnerable 
themselves.  But  when  to  their  feminine 
rage  the  indignation  of  the  people  is 
added,  when  the  ignorant  and  the  poor 
are  aroused,  when  the  unintelligent  brute 
force  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  society 
is  made  to  growl  and  mow,  it  needs  the 
habit  of  magnanimity  and  religion  to  treat 
it  godlike  as  a  trifle  of  no  concernment. 

The  other  terror  that  scares  us  from 


480 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


self-trust  is  our  consistency;  a  reverence 
for  our  past  act  or  word  because  the  eyes 
of  others  have  no  other  data  for  computing 
our  orbit  than  our  past  acts,  and  we  are 
loath  to  disappoint  them. 

But  why  should  you  keep  your  head 
over  your  shoulder?  Why  drag  about  this 
monstrous  corpse  of  your  memory,  lest 
you  contradict  somewhat  you  have  stated 
in  this  or  that  public  place?  Suppose 
you  should  contradict  yourself;  what  then? 
It  seems  to  be  a  rule  of  wisdom  never  to 
rely  on  your  memory  alone,  scarcely  even 
in  acts  of  pure  memory,  but  to  bring  the 
past  for  judgment  into  the  thousand- 
eyed  present,  and  live  ever  in  a  new  day. 
Trust  your  emotion.  In  your  metaphys- 
ics you  have  denied  personality  to  the 
Deity,  yet  when  the  devout  motions  of 
the  soul  come,  yield  to  them  heart  and  life, 
though  they  should  clothe  God  with  shape 
and  color.  Leave  your  theory,  as  Joseph 
his  coat  in  the  hand  of  the  harlot,  and  flee. 

A  foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin 
of  little  minds,  adored  by  little  statesmen 
and  philosophers  and  divines.  With  con- 
sistency a  great  soul  has  simply  nothing  to 
do.  He  may  as  well  concern  himself 
with  his  shadow  on  the  wall.  Out  upon 
your  guarded  lips!  Sew  them  up  with 
packthread,  do.  Else  if  you  would  be  a 
man  speak  what  you  think  to-day  in 
words  as  hard  as  cannon  balls,  and  to- 
morrow speak  what  to-morrow  thinks  in 
hard  words  again,  though  it  contradict 
every  thing  you  said  to-day.  Ah,  then, 
exclaim  the  aged  ladies,  you  shall  be  sure 
to  be  misunderstood!  Misunderstood! 
It  is  a  right  fool's  word.  Is  it  so  bad  then 
to  be  misunderstood?  Pythagoras  was 
misunderstood,  and  Socrates,  and  Jesus, 
and  Luther,  and  Copernicus,  and  Galileo, 
and  Newton,  and  every  pure  and  wise 
spirit  that  ever  took  flesh.  To  be  great  is 
to  be  misunderstood. 

I  suppose  no  man  can  violate  his  nature. 
All  the  sallies  of  his  will  are  rounded  in  by 
the  law  of  his  being,  as  the  inequalities 
of  Andes  and  Himmaleh  are  insignificant 
in  the  curve  of  the  sphere.  Nor  does  it 
matter  how  you  gauge  and  try  him.  A 
character  is  like  an  acrostic  or  Alexandrian 


stanza; — read  it  forward,  backward,  or 
across,  it  still  spells  the  same  thing.  In 
this  pleasing  contrite  wood-life  which 
God  allows  me,  let  me  record  day  by  day 
my  honest  thought  without  prospect  or 
retrospect,  and,  I  cannot  doubt,  it  will 
be  found  symmetrical,  though  I  mean  it 
not  and  see  it  not.  My  book  should  smell 
of  pines  and  resound  with  the  hum  of 
insects.  The  swallow  over  my  window 
should  interweave  that  thread  or  straw 
he  carries  in  his  bill  into  my  web  also. 
We  pass  for  what  we  are.  Character 
teaches  above  our  wills.  Men  imagine 
that  they  communicate  their  virtue  or  vice 
only  by  overt  actions,  and  do  not  see  that 
virtue  or  vice  emit  a  breath  every  moment. 
Fear  never  but  you  shall  be  consistent 
in  whatever  variety  of  actions,  so  they 
be  each  honest  and  natural  in  their  hour. 
For  of  one  will,  the  actions  will  be  har- 
monious, however  unlike  they  seem. 
These  varieties  are  lost  sight  of  when  seen 
at  a  little  distance,  at  a  little  height  of 
thought.  One  tendency  unites  them  all. 
The  voyage  of  the  best  ship  is  a  zigzag 
line  of  a  hundred  tacks.  This  is  only  mi- 
croscopic criticism.  See  the  line  from  a  suf- 
ficient distance,  and  it  straightens  itself 
to  the  average  tendency.  Your  genuine 
action  will  explain  itself  and  will  explain 
your  other  genuine  actions.  Your  con- 
formity explains  nothing.  Act  singly, 
and  what  you  have  already  done  singly 
will  justify  you  now.  Greatness  always 
appeals  to  the  future.  If  I  can  be  great 
enough  now  to  do  right  and  scorn  eyes,  I 
must  have  done  so  much  right  before  as  to 
defend  me  now.  Be  it  how  it  will,  do 
right  now.  Always  scorn  appearances 
and  you  always  may.  The  force  of  char- 
acter is  cumulative.  All  the  foregone  days 
of  virtue  work  their  health  into  this. 
What  makes  the  majesty  of  the  heroes  of 
the  senate  and  the  field,  which  so  fills  the 
imagination?  The  consciousness  of  a 
train  of  great  days  and  victories  behind. 
There  they  all  stand  and  shed  an  united 
light  on  the  advancing  actor.  He  is  at- 
tended as  by  a  visible  escort  of  angels  to 
every  man's  eye.  That  is  it  which  throws 
thunder  into  Chatham's  voice,  and  dignity 


ESSAYS 


481 


into  Washington's  port,  and  America 
into  Adams's  eye.  Honor  is  venerable  to 
us  because  it  is  no  ephemeris.  It  is  always 
ancient  virtue.  We  worship  it  to-day 
because  it  is  not  of  to-day.  We  love  it 
and  pay  it  homage  because  it  is  not  a  trap 
for  our  love  and  homage,  but  is  self- 
dependent,  self-derived,  and  therefore 
of  an  old  immaculate  pedigree,  even  if 
shown  in  a  young  person. 

I  hope  in  these  days  we  have  heard  the 
last  of  conformity  and  consistency.  Let 
the  words  be  gazetted  and  ridiculous  hence- 
forward. Instead  of  the  gong  for  dinner, 
let  us  hear  a  whistle  from  the  Spartan  fife. 
Let  us  bow  and  apologize  never  more. 
A  great  man  is  coming  to  eat  at  my  house. 
I  do  not  wish  to  please  him;  I  wish  that  he 
should  wish  to  please  me.  I  will  stand 
here  for  humanity,  and  though  I  would 
make  it  kind,  I  would  make  it  true. 
Let  us  affront  and  reprimand  the  smooth 
mediocrity  and  squalid  contentment  of 
the  times,  and  hurl  in  the  face  of  custom 
and  trade  and  office,  the  fact  which  is  the 
upshot  of  all  history,  that  there  is  a  great 
responsible  Thinker  and  Actor  moving 
wherever  moves  a  man;  that  a  true  man 
belongs  to  no  other  time  or  place,  but  is  the 
center  of  things.  Where  he  is,  there  is 
nature.  He  measures  you  and  all  men  and 
all  events.  You  are  constrained  to  ac- 
cept his  standard.  Ordinarily,  every  body 
in  society  reminds  us  of  somewhat  else, 
or  of  some  other  person.  Character, 
reality,  reminds  you  of  nothing  else;  it 
takes  place  of  the  whole  creation.  The 
man  must  be  so  much  that  he  must 
make  all  circumstances  indifferent — put  all 
means  into  the  shade.  This  all  great  men 
are  and  do.  Every  true  man  is  a  cause,  a 
country,  and  an  age;  requires  infinite 
spaces  and  numbers  and  time  fully  to  ac- 
complish his  thought; — and  posterity 
seem  to  follow  his  steps  as  a  procession. 
A  man  Caesar  is  born,  and  for  ages  after 
we  have  a  Roman  Empire.  Christ  is  born, 
and  millions  of  minds  so  grow  and  cleave 
to  his  genius  that  he  is  confounded  with 
virtue  and  the  possible  of  man.  An  in- 
stitution is  the  lengthened  shadow  of  one 
man:  as,  the  Reformation,  of  Luther; 


Quakerism,  of  Fox;  Methodism,  of  Wesley; 
Abolition,  of  Clarkson.  Scipio,  Milton 
called  "the  height  of  Rome;"  and  all  his- 
tory resolves  itself  very  easily  into  the  biog- 
raphy of  a  few  stout  and  earnest  persons. 

Let  a  man  then  know  his  worth,  and 
keep  things  under  his  feet.  Let  him  not 
peep  or  steal,  or  skulk  up  and  down 
with  the  air  of  a  charity-bov.  a  bastard, 
or  an  interloper  in  the  world  which  exists 
for  him.  But  the  man  in  the  street, 
finding  no  worth  in  himself  which  cor- 
responds to  the  force  which  built  a  tower  or 
sculptured  a  marble  god,  feels  poor  when 
he  looks  on  these.  To  him  a  palace,  a 
statue,  or  a  costly  book  has  an  alien  and 
forbidding  air,  much  like  a  gay  equipage, 
and  seems  to  say  like  that,  "  Who  are  you, 
sir?"  Yet  they  all  are  his,  suitors  for 
his  notice,  petitioners  to  his  faculties 
that  they  will  come  out  and  take  posses- 
sion. The  picture  waits  for  my  verdict; 
it  is  not  to  command  me,  but  I  am  to 
settle  its  claim  to  praise.  That  popular 
fable  of  the  sot  who  was  picked  up  dead 
drunk  in  the  street,  carried  to  the  duke's 
house,  washed  and  dressed  and  laid  in  the 
duke's  bed,  and,  on  his  waking,  treated 
with  all  obsequious  ceremony  h'ke  the 
duke,  and  assured  that  he  had  been  in- 
sane— owes  its  popularity  to  the  fact  that 
it  symbolizes  so  well  the  state  of  man, 
who  is  in  the  world  a  sort  of  sot,  but  now 
and  then  wakes  up,  exercises  his  reason 
and  finds  himself  a  true  prince. 

Our  reading  is  mendicant  and  syco- 
phantic. In  history  our  imagination  makes 
fools  of  us,  plays  us  false.  Kingdom 
and  lordship,  power  and  estate,  are  a 
gaudier  vocabulary  than  private  John 
and  Edward  in  a  small  house  and  common 
day's  work:  but  the  things  of  life  are  the 
same  to  both:  the  sum  total  of  both  is  the 
same.  Why  all  this  deference  to  Alfred 
and  Scanderbeg  and  Gustavus?  Suppose 
they  were  virtuous;  did  they  wear  out 
virtue?  As  great  a  stake  depends  on  your 
private  act  to-day  as  followed  their  public 
and  renowned  steps.  When  private  men 
shall  act  with  original  views,  the  luster 
will  be  transferred  from  the  actions  of 
kings  to  those  of  gentlemen. 


482 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  world  has  indeed  been  instructed  by 
its  kings,  who  have  so  magnetized  the  eyes 
of  nations.  It  has  been  taught  by  this 
colossal  symbol  the  mutual  reverence  that 
is  due  from  man  to  man.  The  joyful  loy- 
alty with  which  men  have  everywhere 
suffered  the  king,  the  noble,  or  the  great 
proprietor  to  walk  among  them  by  a  law 
of  his  own,  :n?.ke  his  own  scale  of  men  and 
things  and  reverse  theirs,  pay  for  benefits 
not  with  money  but  with  honor,  and  repre- 
sent the  Law  in  his  person,  was  the  hiero- 
glyphic by  which  they  obscurely  signified 
their  consciousness  of  their  own  right  and 
comeliness,  the  right  of  every  man. 

The  magnetism  which  all  original  action 
exerts  is  explained  when  we  inquire  the 
reason  of  self-trust.  Who  is  the  Trustee? 
What  is  the  aboriginal  Self,  on  which  a 
universal  reliance  may  be  grounded? 
What  is  the  nature  and  power  of  that 
science-baffling  star,  without  parallax, 
without  calculable  elements,  which  shoots 
a  ray  of  beauty  even  into  trivial  and  im- 
pure actions,  if  the  least  mark  of  inde- 
pendence appear?  The  inquiry  leads  us 
to  that  source,  at  once  the  essence  of 
genius,  the  essence  of  virtue,  and  the 
essence  of  life,  which  we  call  Spontaneity 
or  Instinct.  We  denote  this  primary 
wisdom  as  Intuition,  whilst  all  later  teach- 
ings are  tuitions.  In  that  deep  force,  the 
last  fact  behind  which  analysis  cannot  go, 
all  things  find  their  common  origin.  For 
the  sense  of  being  which  in  calm  hours 
rises,  we  know  not  how,  in  the  soul,  is  not 
diverse  from  things,  from  space,  from  light, 
from  time,  from  man,  but  one  with  them 
and  proceedeth  obviously  from  the  same 
source  whence  their  life  and  being  also  pro- 
ceedeth.  We  first  share  the  life  by  which 
things  exist  and  afterward  see  them  as 
appearances  in  nature  and  forget  that  we 
have  shared  their  cause.  Here  is  the 
fountain  of  action  and  the  fountain  of 
thought.  Here  are  the  lungs  of  that  in- 
spiration which  giveth  man  wisdom,  of 
that  inspiration  of  man  which  cannot  be 
denied  without  impiety  and  atheism. 
We  lie  in  the  lap  of  immense  intelligence, 
which  makes  us  organs  of  its  activity  and 
receivers  of  its  truth.  When  we  discern 


justice,  when  we  discern  truth,  we  do 
nothing  of  ourselves,  but  allow  a  passage 
to  its  beams.  If  we  ask  whence  this 
comes,  if  we  seek  to  pry  into  the  soul  that 
causes — all  metaphysics,  all  philosophy 
is  at  fault.  Its  presence  or  its  absence  is 
all  we  can  affirm.  Every  man  discerns 
between  the  voluntary  acts  of  his  mind 
and  his  involuntary  perceptions.  And  to 
his  involuntary  perceptions  he  knows  a 
perfect  respect  is  due.  He  may  err  in 
the  expression  of  them,  but  he  knows  that 
these  things  are  so,  like  day  and  night, 
not  to  be  disputed.  All  my  wilful  actions 
and  acquisitions  are  but  roving; — the  most 
trivial  reverie,  the  faintest  native  emotion, 
are  domestic  and  divine.  Thoughtless 
people  contradict  as  readily  the  statement 
of  perceptions  as  of  opinions,  or  rather 
much  more  readily;  for  they  do  not  dis- 
tinguish between  perception  and  notion. 
They  fancy  that  I  choose  to  see  this  or 
that  thing.  But  perception  is  not  whim- 
sical, but  fatal.  If  I  see  a  trait,  my  chil- 
dren will  see  it  after  me,  and  in  course  of 
time  all  mankind, — although  it  may 
chance  that  no  one  has  seen  it  before  me. 
For  my  perception  of  it  is  as  much  a  fact 
as  the  sun. 

The  relations  of  the  soul  to  the  divine 
spirit  are  so  pure  that  it  is  profane  to 
seek  to  interpose  helps.  It  must  be  that 
when  God  speaketh  he  should  communi- 
cate, not  one  thing,  but  all  things;  should 
fill  the  world  with  his  voice;  should  scatter 
forth  light,  nature,  time,  souls,  from  the 
center  of  the  present  thought;  and  new 
date  and  new  create  the  whole.  When- 
ever a  mind  is  simple  and  receives  a  divine 
wisdom,  then  old  things  pass  away, — 
means,  teachers,  texts,  temples  fall;  it 
lives  now,  and  absorbs  past  and  future 
into  the  present  hour.  All  things  are 
made  sacred  by  relation  to  it, — one  thing 
as  much  as  another.  All  things  are  dis- 
solved to  their  center  by  their  cause,  and 
in  the  universal  miracle  petty  and  par- 
ticular miracles  disappear.  This  is  and 
must  be.  If  therefore  a  man  claims  to 
know  and  speak  of  God  and  carries  you 
backward  to  the  phraseology  of  some  old 
moldered  nation  in  another  country,  in  an- 


ESSAYS 


483 


other  world,  believe  him  not.  Is  the 
acorn  better  than  the  oak  which  is  its 
fulness  and  completion?  Is  the  parent 
better  than  the  child  into  whom  he  has 
cast  his  ripened  being?  Whence  then  this 
worship  of  the  past?  The  centuries  are 
conspirators  against  the  sanity  and  maj- 
esty of  the  soul.  Time  and  space  are 
but  physiological  colors  which  the  eye 
maketh,  but  the  soul  is  light;  where  it  is, 
is  day;  where  it  was,  is  night;  and  history 
is  an  impertinence  and  an  injury  if  it  be 
any  thing  more  than  a  cheerful  apologue 
or  parable  of  my  being  and  becoming. 

Man  is  timid  and  apologetic;  he  is  no 
longer  upright;  he  dares  not  say  "I  think," 
"I  am,"  but  quotes  some  saint  or  sage. 
He  is  ashamed  before  the  blade  of  grass 
or  the  blowing  rose.  These  roses  under 
my  window  make  no  reference  to  former 
roses  or  to  better  ones;  they  are  for  what 
they  are;  they  exist  with  God  to-day. 
There  is  no  time  to  them.  There  is 
simply  the  rose;  it  is  perfect  in  every 
moment  of  its  existence.  Before  a  leaf- 
bud  has  burst,  its  whole  life  acts;  in  the 
full-blown  flower  there  is  no  more;  in  the 
leafless  root  there  is  no  less.  Its  nature  is 
satisfied  and  it  satisfies  nature  in  all  mo- 
ments alike.  There  is  no  time  to  it. 
But  man  postpones  or  remembers;  he 
does  not  live  in  the  present,  but  with 
reverted  eye  laments  the  past,  or,  heedless 
of  the  riches  that  surround  him,  stands 
on  tiptoe  to  foresee  the  future.  He  can- 
not be  happy  and  strong  until  he  too 
lives  with  nature  in  the  present,  above 
tune. 

This  should  be  plain  enough.  Yet  see 
what  strong  intellects  dare  not  yet  hear 
God  himself  unless  he  speak  the  phrase- 
ology of  I  know  not  what  David,  or  Jere- 
miah, or  Paul.  We  shall  not  always  set 
so  great  a  price  on  a  few  texts,  on  a  few 
lives.  We  are  like  children  who  repeat 
by  rote  the  sentences  of  grandames  and 
tutors,  and,  as  they  grow  older,  of  the 
men  of  talents  and  character  they  chance 
to  see,— painfully  recollecting  the  exact 


words  they  spoke;  afterward,  when  they 
come  into  the  point  of  view  which  those 
had  who  uttered  these  sayings,  they  under- 
stand them  and  are  willing  to  let  the  words 
go;  for  at  any  time  they  can  use  words  as 
good  when  occasion  comes.  So  was  it  with 
us,  so  will  it  be,  if  we  proceed.  If  we  live 
truly,  we  shall  see  truly.  It  is  as  easy  for 
the  strong  man  to  be  strong,  as  it  is  for  the 
weak  to  be  weak.  When  we  have  new 
perception,  we  shall  gladly  disburden  the 
memory  of  its  hoarded  treasures  as  old 
rubbish.  When  a  man  lives  with  God,  his 
voice  shall  be  as  sweet  as  the  murmur  of 
the  brook  and  the  rustle  of  the  corn. 

And  now  at  last  the  highest  truth  on  this 
subject  remains  unsaid;  probably  cannot 
be  said;  for  all  that  we  say  is  the  far  off 
remembering  of  the  intuition:  That 
thought,  by  what  I  can  now  nearest  ap- 
proach to  say  it,  is  this:  When  good  is 
near  you,  when  you  have  hie  in  yourself, — 
it  is  not  by  any  known  or  appointed  way; 
you  shall  not  discern  the  foot-prints  of  any 
other;  you  shall  not  see  the  face  of  man; 
you  shall  not  hear  any  name; — the  way, 
the  thought,  the  good,  shall  be  wholly 
strange  and  new.  It  shall  exclude  all 
other  being.  You  take  the  way  from 
man,  not  to  man.  All  persons  that  ever 
existed  are  its  fugitive  ministers.  There 
shall  be  no  fear  in  it.  Fear  and  hope  are 
alike  beneath  it.  It  asks  nothing.  There 
is  somewhat  low  even  in  hope.  We  are 
then  in  vision.  There  is  nothing  that  can 
be  called  gratitude,  nor  properly  joy. 
The  soul  is  raised  over  passion.  It  seeth 
identity  and  eternal  causation.  It  is  a 
perceiving  that  Truth  and  Right  are. 
Hence  it  becomes  a  Tranquillity  out  of 
the  knowing  that  all  things  go  well.  Vast 
spaces  of  nature;  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  the 
South  Sea;  vast  intervals  of  time,  years, 
centuries,  are  of  no  account.  This  which 
I  think  and  feel  underlay  that  former  state 
of  life  and  circumstances,  as  it  does  under- 
lie my  present  and  will  always  all  cir- 
cumstances, and  what  is  called  Hie  and 
what  is  called  death. 


484 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


SAINTE-BEUVE  (1804-1869) 

Sainte-Beuve,  who  possessed  one  of  the  most  wide-ranging  minds  produced  during  the  nineteenth 
century,  was  perhaps  the  most  representative  French  critic  of  the  period.  Every  Monday  for  nearly 
twenty  years  he  contributed  a  paper  on  some  subject  connected  with  literature  to  a  literary  journal,  and 
these  "Monday  Chats,"  collected  in  twenty-eight  volumes,  cover  nearly  the  whole  field  of  French 
literature  and  much  foreign  material.  "A  Naturalist  of  the  human  mind,"  he  called  himself,  and  it  is 
in  literary  portraiture  that  he  performed  his  most  memorable  work.  In  the  following  essay  the  author 
discusses  in  his  charming  fashion  the  grounds  of  literary  taste. 

Translation  by  Elizabeth  Lee. 


WHAT  Is  A  CLASSIC? 

A  DELICATE  question,  to  which  somewhat 
diverse  solutions  might  be  given  accord- 
ing to  times  and  seasons.  An  intelli- 
gent man  suggests  it  to  me,  and  I  intend 
to  try,  if  not  to  solve  it,  at  least  to  exam- 
ine and  discuss  it  face  to  face  with  my 
readers,  were  it  only  to  persuade  them  to 
answer  it  for  themselves,  and,  if  I  can,  to 
make  their  opinion  and  mine  on  the  point 
clear.  And  why,  in  criticism,  should  we 
not,  from  time  to  time,  venture  to  treat 
some  of  those  subjects  which  are  not  per- 
sonal, in  which  we  no  longer  speak  of 
some  one  but  of  some  thing?  Our 
neighbors,  the  English,  have  well  suc- 
ceeded in  making  of  it  a  special  division  of 
literature  under  the  modest  title  of 
"Essays."  It  is  true  that  in  writing  of 
such  subjects,  always  slightly  abstract 
and  moral,  it  is  advisable  to  speak  of 
them  in  a  season  of  quiet,  to  make  sure  of 
our  own  attention  and  of  that  of  others,  to 
seize  one  of  those  moments  of  calm  mod- 
eration and  leisure  seldom  granted  our 
amiable  France;  even  when  she  is  desir- 
ous of  being  wise  and  is  not  making  revolu- 
tions, her  brilliant  genius  can  scarcely 
tolerate  them. 

A  classic,  according  to  the  usual  defini- 
tion, is  an  old  author  canonized  by  admira- 
tion, and  an  authority  in  his  particular 
style.  The  word  classic  was  first  used  in 
this  sense  by  the  Romans.  With  them 
not  all  the  citizens  of  the  different  classes 
were  properly  called  classici,  but  only 
those  of  the  chief  class,  those  who  pos- 
sessed an  income  of  a  certain  fixed  sum. 
Those  who  possessed  a  smaller  income 
were  described  by  the  term  infra  classem, 
below  the  preeminent  class.  The  word 


classicus  was  used  in  a  figurative  sense  by 
Aulus  Gellius,  and  applied  to  writers: 
a  writer  of  worth  and  distinction,  classicus 
assiduusque  scriptor,  a  writer  who  is  of  ac- 
count, has  real  property,  and  is  not  lost 
in  the  proletariate  crowd.  Such  an  ex- 
pression implies  an  age  sufficiently  ad- 
vanced to  have  already  made  some  sort  of 
valuation  and  classification  of  literature. 

At  first  the  only  true  classics  for  the 
moderns  were  the  ancients.  The  Greeks, 
by  peculiar  good  fortune  and  natural 
enlightenment  of  mind,  had  no  classics 
but  themselves.  They  were  at  first  the 
only  classical  authors  for  the  Romans,  who 
strove  and  contrived  to  imitate  them. 
After  the  great  periods  of  Roman  litera- 
ture, after  Cicero  and  Virgil,  the  Romans 
in  their  turn  had  their  classics,  who  be- 
come almost  exclusively  the  classical 
authors  of  the  centuries  which  followed. 
The  middle  ages,  which  were  less  ignorant 
of  Latin  antiquity  than  is  believed,  but 
which  lacked  proportion  and  taste,  con- 
fused the  ranks  and  orders.  Ovid  was 
placed  above  Homer,  and  Boetius  seemed 
a  classic  equal  to  Plato.  The  revival 
of  learning  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries  helped  to  bring  this  long  chaos 
to  order,  and  then  only  was  admiration 
rightly  proportioned.  Thenceforth  the 
true  classical  authors  of  Greek  and  Latin 
antiquity  stood  out  in  a  luminous  back- 
ground, and  were  harmoniously  grouped 
on  their  two  heights. 

Meanwhile  modern  literatures  were 
born,  and  some  of  the  more  precocious, 
like  the  Italian,  already  possessed  the 
style  of  antiquity.  Dante  appeared,  and, 
from  the  very  first,  posterity  greeted  him 
as  a  classic.  Italian  poetry  has  since 
shrunk  into  far  narrower  bounds;  but, 


ESSAYS 


485 


wnenever  it  desired  to  do  so,  it  always 
found  again  and  preserved  the  impulse 
and  echo  of  its  lofty  origin.  It  is  no  in- 
different matter  for  a  poetry  to  derive 
its  point  of  departure  and  classical  source 
in  high  places;  for  example,  to  spring 
from  Dante  rather  than  to  issue  labor- 
iously from  Malherbe. 

Modern  Italy  had  her  classical  authors, 
and  Spain  had  every  right  to  believe  that 
she  also  had  hers  at  a  time  when  France 
was  yet  seeking  hers.  A  few  talented 
writers  endowed  with  originality  and 
exceptional  animation,  a  few  brilliant 
efforts,  isolated,  without  following,  inter- 
rupted and  recommenced,  did  not  suffice 
to  endow  a  nation  with  a  solid  and  impos- 
ing basis  of  literary  wealth.  The  idea  of 
a  classic  implies  something  that  has 
continuance  and  consistence,  and  which 
produces  unity  and  tradition,  fashions 
and  transmits  itself,  and  endures.  It  was 
only  after  the  glorious  years  of  Louis  XIV. 
that  the  nation  felt  with  tremor  and  pride 
that  such  good  fortune  had  happened  to 
her.  Every  voice  informed  Louis  XIV. 
of  it  with  flattery,  exaggeration,  and  em- 
phasis, yet  with  a  certain  sentiment  of 
truth.  Then  arose  a  singular  and  striking 
contradiction:  those  men  of  whom  Per- 
rault  was  the  chief,  the  men  who  were  most 
smitten  with  the  marvels  of  the  age  of 
Louis  the  Great,  who  even  went  the  length 
of  sacrificing  the  ancients  to  the  moderns, 
aimed  at  exalting  and  canonizing  even 
those  whom  they  regarded  as  inveterate 
opponents  and  adversaries.  Boileau 
avenged  and  angrily  upheld  the  ancients 
against  Perrault,  who  extolled  the  moderns 
— that  is  to  say,  Corneille,  Moliere,  Pascal, 
and  the  eminent  men  of  his  age,  Boileau, 
one  of  the  first,  included.  Kindly  La 
Fontaine,  taking  part  in  the  dispute  in 
behalf  of  the  learned  Huet,  did  not  per- 
ceive that,  in  spite  of  his  defects,  he  was  hi 
his  turn  on  the  point  of  being  held  as  a 
classic  himself. 

Example  is  the  best  definition.  From 
the  time  France  possessed  her  age  of 
Louis  XIV.  and  could  contemplate  it  at 
a  little  distance,  she  knew,  better  than 
by  any  arguments,  what  to  be  classical 


meant.  The  eighteenth  century,  even  in 
its  medley  of  things,  strengthened  this 
idea  through  some  fine  works,  due  to  its 
four  great  men.  Read  Voltaire's  "Age  of 
Louis  XIV,"  Montesquieu's  "Greatness 
and  FaU  of  the  Romans;"  Buffon's  "Epochs 
of  Nature,"  the  beautiful  pages  of  reverie 
and  natural  description  of  Rousseau's 
"Savoyard  Vicar,"  and  say  if  the  eighteenth 
century,  in  these  memorable  works,  did 
not  understand  how  to  reconcile  tradition 
with  freedom  of  development  and  inde- 
pendence. But  at  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century  and  under  the  Empire,  in 
sight  of  the  first  attempts  of  a  decidedly 
new  and  somewhat  adventurous  litera- 
ture, the  idea  of  a  classic  in  a  few  resisting 
minds,  more  sorrowful  than  severe,  was 
strangely  narrowed  and  contracted.  The 
first  Dictionary  of  the  Academy  (1694) 
merely  defined  a  classical  author  as  "a 
much-approved  ancient  writer,  who  is  an 
authority  as  regards  the  subject  he  treats." 
The  Dictionary  of  the  Academy  of  1835 
narrows  that  definition  still  more,  and 
gives  precision  and  even  limit  to  its  rather 
vague  form.  It  describes  classical  authors 
as  those  "who  have  become  models  in  any 
language  whatever,"  and  in  all  the  articles 
which  follow,  the  expressions,  models, 
fixed  rules  for  composition  and  style, 
strict  rules  of  art  to  which  men  must  con- 
form, continually  recur.  That  definition 
of  classic  was  evidently  made  by  the 
respectable  Academicians,  our  pre- 
decessors, in  face  and  sight  of  what  was 
then  called  romantic — that  is  to  say  in 
sight  of  the  enemy.  It  seems  to  me  time 
to  renounce  those  timid  and  restrictive 
definitions  and  to  free  our  mind  of  them. 

A  true  classic,  as  I  should  like  to  hear 
it  defined,  is  an  author  who  has  enriched 
the  human  mind,  increased  its  treasure, 
and  caused  it  to  advance  a  step;  who  has 
discovered  some  moral  and  not  equivocal 
truth,  or  revealed  some  eternal  passion  in 
that  heart  where  all  seemed  known  and  dis- 
covered; who  has  expressed  his  thought, 
observation,  or  invention,  in  no  matter 
what  form,  only  provided  it  be  broad  and 
great,  refined  and  sensible,  sane  and  beauti- 
ful in  itself;  who  has  spoken  to  all  in  his 


486 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


own  peculiar  style,  a  style  which  is  found 
to  be  also  that  of  the  whole  world,  a  style 
new  without  neologism,  new  and  old, 
easily  contemporary  with  all  time. 

Such  a  classic  may  for  a  moment  have 
been  revolutionary;  it  may  at  least  have 
seemed  so,  but  it  is  not;  it  only  lashed  and 
subverted  whatever  prevented  the  res- 
toration of  the  balance  of  order  and 
beauty. 

If  it  is  desired,  names  may  be  applied 
to  this  definition  which  I  wish  to  make  pur- 
posely majestic  and  fluctuating,  or  in  a 
word,  all-embracing.  I  should  first  put 
there  Corneille  of  the  "Polyeucte," 
"China,"  and  "Horaces."  I  should  put 
Moliere  there,  the  fullest  and  most  com- 
plete poetic  genius  we  have  ever  had  in 
France.  Goethe,  the  king  of  critics,  said : — 

"  Moliere  is  so  great  that  he  astonishes 
us  afresh  every  time  we  read  him.  He  is 
a  man  apart;  his  plays  border  on  the 
tragic,  and  no  one  has  the  courage  to  try 
and  imitate  him.  His  'Avare/  where  vice 
destroys  all  affection  between  father  and 
son,  is  one  of  the  most  sublime  works,  and 
dramatic  in  the  highest  degree.  In  a 
drama  every  action  ought  to  be  important 
in  itself,  and  to  lead  to  an  action  greater 
still.  In  this  respect  'Tartuffe'  is  a  model. 
What  a  piece  of  exposition  the  first  scene 
is!  From  the  beginning  everything  has 
an  important  meaning,  and  causes  some- 
thing much  more  important  to  be  foreseen. 
The  exposition  in  a  certain  play  of  Lessing 
that  might  be  mentioned  is  very  fine,  but 
the  world  only  sees  that  of  'Tartuff  e'  once. 
It  is  the  finest  of  the  kind  we  possess. 
Every  year  I  read  a  play  of  Moliere,  just 
as  from  time  to  time  I  contemplate  some 
engraving  after  the  great  Italian  masters." 

I  do  not  conceal  from  myself  that  the 
definition  of  the  classic  I  have  just  given 
somewhat  exceeds  the  notion  usually 
ascribed  to  the  term.  -  It  should,  above  all, 
include  conditions  of  uniformity,  wisdom, 
moderation,  and  reason,  which  dominate 
and  contain  all  the  others.  Having  to 
praise  M.  Royer-Collard,  M.  de  Remusat 
said — "If  he  derives  purity  of  taste,  pro- 
priety of  terms,  variety  of  expression,  atten- 
tive care  in  suiting  the  diction  to  the 


thought,  from  our  classics,  he  owes  to  him- 
self alone  the  distinctive  character  he 
gives  it  all."  It  is  here  evident  that  the 
part  allotted  to  classical  qualities  seems 
mostly  to  depend  on  harmony  and  nuances 
of  expression,  on  graceful  and  temper- 
ate style:  such  is  also  the  most  general 
opinion.  In  this  sense  the  preeminent 
classics  would  be  writers  of  a  middling 
order,  exact,  sensible,  elegant,  always  clear, 
yet  of  noble  feeling  and  airily  veiled 
strength.  Marie- Joseph  Chenier  has  de- 
scribed the  poetics  of  those  temperate  and 
accomplished  writers  in  lines  where  he 
shows  himself  their  happy  disciple: — 

"It  is  good  sense,  reason  which  does  all, 
— virtue,  genius,  soul,  talent,  and  taste. — 
What  is  virtue?  reason  put  in  practice; — 
talent?  reason  expressed  with  brilliance; — 
soul?  reason  delicately  put  forth; — and 
genius  is  sublime  reason." 

While  writing  those  lines  he  was  evi- 
dently thinking  of  Pope,  Boileau,  and 
Horace,  the  master  of  them  all.  The 
peculiar  characteristic  of  the  theory  which 
subordinated  imagination  and  feeling  it- 
self to  reason,  of  which  Scaliger  perhaps 
gave  the  first  sign  among  the  moderns,  is, 
properly  speaking,  the  Latin  theory,  and 
for  a  long  time  it  was  also  by  preference 
the  French  theory.  If  it  is  used  ap- 
positely, if  the  term  reason  is  not  abused, 
that  theory  possesses  some  truth;  but  it  is 
evident  that  it  is  abused,  and  that  if,  for 
instance,  reason  can  be  confounded  with 
poetic  genius  and  make  one  with  it  in  a 
moral  epistle,  it  cannot  be  the  same  thing 
as  the  genius,  so  varied  and  so  diversely 
creative  in  its  expression  of  the  passions, 
of  the  drama  or  the  epic.  Where  will  you 
find  reason  in  the  fourth  book  of  the 
"^Eneid"  and  the  transports  of  Dido?  Be 
that  as  it  may,  the  spirit  which  prompted 
the  theory,  caused  writers  who  ruled  their 
inspiration,  rather  than  those  who  aban- 
doned themselves  to  it,  to  be  placed  in  the 
first  rank  of  classics;  to  put  Virgil  there 
more  surely  than  Homer,  Racine  in  pref- 
erence to  Corneille.  The  masterpiece  to 
which  the  theory  likes  to  point,  which  in 
fact  brings  together  all  conditions  of  pru- 
dence, strength,  tempered  boldness,  moral 


ESSAYS 


487 


elevation,  and  grandeur,  is  "Athalie." 
Turenne  in  his  two  last  campaigns  and 
Racine  in  "Athalie"  are  the  great  examples 
of  what  wise  and  prudent  men  are  capable 
of  when  they  reach  the  maturity  of  their 
genius  and  attain  their  supremest  boldness. 

Buff  on,  in  his  Discourse  on  Style,  in- 
sisting on  the  unity  of  design,  arrange- 
ment, and  execution,  which  are  the  stamps 
of  true  classical  works,  said: — "Every 
subject  is  one,  and  however  vast  it  is,  it  can 
be  comprised  in  a  single  treatise.  Inter- 
ruptions, pauses,  sub-divisions  should 
only  be  used  when  many  subjects  are 
treated,  when,  having  to  speak  of  great, 
intricate,  and  dissimilar  things,  the  march 
of  genius  is  interrupted  by  the  multiplicity 
of  obstacles,  and  contracted  by  the  ne- 
cessity of  circumstances:  otherwise,  far 
from  making  a  work  more  solid,  a  great 
number  of  divisions  destroys  the  unity 
of  its  parts;  the  book  appears  clearer  to 
the  view,  but  the  author's  design  remains 
obscure."  And  he  continues  his  criti- 
cism, having  in  view  Montesquieu's 
"Spirit  of  Laws,"  an  excellent  book  at  bot- 
tom, but  sub-divided:  the  famous  author, 
worn  out  before  the  end,  was  unable  to 
infuse  inspiration  into  all  his  ideas,  and  to 
arrange  all  his  matter.  However,  I  can 
scarcely  believe  that  Buff  on  was  not  also 
thinking,  by  way  of  contrast,  of  Bossuet's 
"Discourse  on  Universal  History,"  a  sub- 
ject vast  indeed,  and  yet  of  such  an  unity 
that  the  great  orator  was  able  to  com- 
prise it  in  a  single  treatise.  When 
we  open  the  first  edition,  that  of 
1681,  before  the  division  into  chap- 
ters, which  was  introduced  later,  passed 
from  the  margin  into  the  text,  everything 
is  developed  in  a  single  series,  almost  in 
one  breath.  It  might  be  said  that  the 
orator  has  here  acted  like  the  nature  of 
which  Buff  on  speaks,  that  "he  has  worked 
on  an  eternal  plan  from  which  he  has  no- 
where departed,"  so  deeply  does  he  seem 
to  have  entered  into  the  familiar  counsels 
and  designs  of  providence. 

Are  "Athalie"  and  the  "Discourse  on 
Universal  History"  the  greatest  master- 
pieces that  the  strict  classical  theory  can 
present  to  its  friends  as  well  as  to  its 


enemies?  In  spite  of  the  admirable  sim- 
plicity and  dignity  in  the  achievement  of 
such  unique  productions,  we  should  like, 
nevertheless,  in  the  interests  of  art,  to 
expand  that  theory  a  little,  and  to  show 
that  it  is  possible  to  enlarge  it  without 
relaxing  the  tension.  Goethe,  whom  I  like 
to  quote  on  such  a  subject,  said: — 

"I  call  the  classical  healthy,  and  the 
romantic  sickly.  In  my  opinion  the 
Nibelungen  song  is  as  much  a  classic  as 
Homer.  Both  are  healthy  and  vigorous. 
The  works  of  the  day  are  romantic,  not 
because  they  are  new,  but  because  they  are 
weak,  ailing,  or  sickly.  Ancient  works 
are  classical  not  because  they  are  old,  but 
because  they  are  powerful,  fresh,  and 
healthy.  If  we  regarded  romantic  and 
classical  from  those  two  points  of  view 
we  should  soon  all  agree." 

Indeed,  before  determining  and  fixing 
opinions  on  that  matter,  I  should  like 
every  unbiased  mind  to  take  a  voyage 
round  the  world  and  devote  itself  to  a 
survey  of  different  literatures  in  their 
primitive  vigor  and  infinite  variety. 
What  would  be  seen?  Chief  of  all  a 
Homer,  the  father  of  the  classical  world, 
less  a  single  distinct  individual  than  the 
vast  living  expression  of  a  whole  epoch 
and  a  semi-barbarous  civilization.  In 
order  to  make  him  a  true  classic,  it  was 
necessary  to  attribute  to  him  later  a  design, 
a  plan,  literary  invention,  qualities  of 
atticism  and  urbanity  of  which  he  had 
certainly  never  dreamed  in  the  luxuriant 
development  of  his  natural  inspirations. 
And  who  appear  by  his  side?  August, 
venerable  ancients,  the  ^Eschyluses  and 
the  Sophocles,  mutilated,  it  is  true,  and 
only  there  to  present  us  with  a  debris  of 
themselves,  the  survivors  of  many  others 
as  worthy,  doubtless,  as  they  to  survive, 
but  who  have  succumbed  to  the  injuries 
of  time.  This  thought  alone  would  teach 
a  man  of  impartial  mind  not  to  look  upon 
the  whole  of  even  classical  literatures 
with  a  too  narrow  and  restricted  view;  he 
would  learn  that  the  exact  and  well-pro- 
portioned order  which  has  since  so  largely 
prevailed  in  our  admiration  of  the  past  was 
only  the  outcome  of  artificial  circumstances. 


488 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


And  in  reaching  the  modern  world, 
how  would  it  be?  The  greatest  names  to 
be  seen  at  the  beginning  of  literatures  are 
those  which  disturb  and  run  counter  to 
certain  fixed  ideas  of  what  is  beautiful 
and  appropriate  in  poetry.  For  example, 
is  Shakespeare  a  classic?  Yes,  now,  for 
England  and  the  world;  but  in  the  time 
of  Pope  he  was  not  considered  so.  Pope 
and  his  friends  were  the  only  preeminent 
classics;  directly  after  their  death  they 
seemed  so  for  ever.  At  the  present  tune 
they  are  still  classics,  as  they  deserve  to 
be,  but  they  are  only  of  the  second  order, 
and  are  for  ever  subordinated  and  rele- 
gated to  their  rightful  place  by  him  who 
has  again  come  to  his  own  on  the  height 
of  the  horizon. 

It  is  not,  however,  for  me  to  speak  ill 
of  Pope  or  his  great  disciples,  above  all, 
when  they  possess  pathos  and  naturalness 
like  Goldsmith:  after  the  greatest  they 
are  perhaps  the  most  agreeable  writers 
and  the  poets  best  fitted  to  add  charm  to 
life.  Once  when  Lord  Bolingbroke  was 
writing  to  Swift,  Pope  added  a  post- 
script, in  which  he  said — "I  think  some 
advantage  would  result  to  our  age,  if  we 
three  spent  three  years  together."  Men 
who,  without  boasting,  have  the  right  to 
say  such  things  must  never  be  spoken  of 
lightly:  the  fortunate  ages,  when  men  of 
talent  could  propose  such  things,  then  no 
chimera,  are  rather  to  be  envied.  The 
ages  called  by  the  name  of  Louis  XIV.  or 
of  Queen  Anne  are,  in  the  dispassionate 
sense  of  the  word,  the  only  true  classical 
ages,  those  which  offer  protection  and  a 
favorable  climate  to  real  talent.  We 
know  only  too  well  how  in  our  untram- 
melled times,  through  the  instability  and 
storminess  of  the  age,  talents  are  lost  and 
dissipated.  Nevertheless,  let  us  acknowl- 
edge our  age's  part  and  superiority  in 
greatness.  True  and  sovereign  genius 
triumphs  over  the  very  difficulties  that 
cause  others  to  fail:  Dante,  Shakespeare, 
and  Milton  were  able  to  attain  their 
height  and  produce  their  imperishable 
works  in  spite  of  obstacles,  hardships,  and 
tempests.  Byron's  opinion  of  Pope  has 
been  much  discussed,  and  the  explana- 


tion of  it  sought  in  the  kind  of  contradic- 
tion by  which  the  singer  of  "Don  Juan"  and 
"Childe  Harold"  extolled  the  purely  clas- 
sical school  and  pronounced  it  the  only 
good  one,  while  himself  acting  so  differently. 
Goethe  spoke  the  truth  on  that  point 
when  he  remarked  that  Byron,  great  by 
the  flow  and  source  of  poetry,  feared  that 
Shakespeare  was  more  powerful  than  him- 
self in  the  creation  and  realization  of  his 
characters.  "He  would  have  liked  to 
deny  it;  the  elevation  so  free  from  egoism 
irritated  him;  he  felt  when  near  it  that  he 
could  not  display  himself  at  ease.  He 
never  denied  Pope,  because  he  did  not 
fear  him;  he  knew  that  Pope  was  only  a 
low  wall  by  his  side." 

If,  as  Byron  desired,  Pope's  school  had 
kept  the  supremacy  and  a  sort  of  honorary 
empire  in  the  past,  Byron  would  have  been 
the  first  and  only  poet  in  his  particular 
style:  the  height  of  Pope's  wall  shuts  out 
Shakespeare's  great  figure  from  sight, 
whereas  when  Shakespeare  reigns  and 
rules  hi  all  his  greatness,  Byron  is  only 
second. 

In  France  there  was  no  great  classic 
before  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.;  the  Dantes 
and  Shakespeares,  the  early  authorities  to 
whom,  in  times  of  emancipation,  men 
sooner  or  later  return,  were  wanting, 
There  were  mere  sketches  of  great  poets, 
like  Mathurin  Regnier,  like  Rabelais, 
without  any  ideal,  without  the  depth  of 
emotion  and  the  seriousness  which  can- 
onizes. Montaigne  was  a  kind  of  pre- 
mature classic,  of  the  family  of  Horace ;  but 
for  want  of  worthy  surroundings,  like  a 
spoiled  child,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
unbridled  fancies  of  his  style  and  humor. 
Hence  it  happened  that  France,  less  than 
any  other  nation,  found  in  her  old  authors 
a  right  to  demand  vehemently  at  a  certain 
time  literary  liberty  and  freedom,  and 
that  it  was  more  difficult  for  her,  in  en- 
franchising herself,  to  remain  classical. 
However,  with  Moliere  and  La  Fontaine 
among  her  classics  of  the  great  period, 
nothing  could  justly  be  refused  to  those 
who  possessed  courage  and  ability. 

The  important  point  now  seems  to  me 
to  be  to  uphold,  while  extending,  the  idea 


ESSAYS 


489 


and  belief.  There  is  no  receipt  for  making 
classics;  this  point  should  be  clearly  rec- 
ognized. To  believe  that  an  author  will 
become  a  classic  by  imitating  certain 
qualities  of  purity,  moderation,  accuracy, 
\nd  elegance,  independently  of  the  style 
and  inspiration,  is  to  believe  that  after 
Racine  the  father  there  is  a  place  for 
Racine  the  son;  dull  and  estimable  rdle, 
the  worst  in  poetry.  Further,  it  is  haz- 
ardous to  take  too  quickly  and  without 
opposition  the  place  of  a  classic  in  the 
sight  of  one's  contemporaries;  in  that 
case  there  is  a  good  chance  of  not  retaining 
the  position  with  posterity.  Fontanes 
in  his  day  was  regarded  by  his  friends  as  a 
pure  classic;  see  how  at  twenty-five  years' 
distance  his  star  has  set.  How  many 
of  these  precocious  classics  are  there  who 
do  not  endure,  and  who  are  so  only  for  a 
while!  We  turn  round -one  morning  and 
are  surprised  not  to  find  them  standing 
behind  us.  Madame  de  Sevigne  would 
wittily  say  they  possessed  but  an  evan- 
escent color.  With  regard  to  classics,  the 
least  expected  prove  the  best  and  greatest; 
seek  them  rather  in  the  vigorous  genius 
born  immortal  and  flourishing  for  ever. 
Apparently  the  least  classical  of  the  four 
great  poets  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  was 
Moliere;  he  was  then  applauded  far  more 
than  he  was  esteemed;  men  took  delight 
in  him  without  understanding  his  worth. 
After  him,  La  Fontaine  seemed  the  least 
classical:  observe  after  two  centuries 
what  is  the  result  for  both.  Far  above 
Boileau,  even  above  Racine,  are  they  not 
now  unanimously  considered  to  possess 
in  the  highest  degree  the  characteristics 
of  an  all-embracing  morality? 

Meanwhile  there  is  no  question  of  sacri- 
ficing or  depreciating  anything.  I  be- 
lieve the  temple  of  taste  is  to  be  rebuilt; 
but  its  reconstruction  is  merely  a  matter  of 
enlargement,  so  that  it  may  become  the 
home  of  all  noble  human  beings,  of  all  who 
have  permanently  increased  the  sum  of 
the  mind's  delights  and  possessions.  As 
for  me,  who  cannot,  obviously,  in  any 
degree  pretend  to  be  the  architect  or  de- 
signer of  such  a  temple,  I  shall  confine 
myself  to  expressing  a  few  earnest  wishes, 


to  submit,  as  it  were,  my  designs  for  the 
edifice.  Above  all  I  should  desire  not  to 
exclude  any  one  among  the  worthy,  each 
should  be  in  his  place  there,  from  Shake- 
speare, the  freest  of  creative  geniuses,  and 
the  greatest  of  classics  without  knowing  it, 
to  Andrieux,  the  last  of  classics  in  little. 
"There  is  more  than  one  chamber  hi  the 
mansions  of  my  Father;"  that  should  be 
as  true  of  the  kingdom  of  the  beautiful 
here  below,  as  of  the  kingdom  of  Heaven. 
Homer,  as  always  and  everywhere,  should 
be  first,  likest  a  god;  but  behind  him,  like 
the  processsion  of  the  three  wise  kings 
of  the  East,  would  be  seen  the  three  great 
poets,  the  three  Homers,  so  long  ignored 
by  us,  who  wrote  epics  for  the  use  of  the 
old  peoples  of  Asia,  the  poets  Valmiki, 
Vyasa  of  the  Hindoos,  and  Firdousi  of 
the  Persians:  in  the  domain  of  taste  it  is 
well  to  know  that  such  men  exist,  and  not 
to  divide  the  human  race.  Our  homage 
paid  to  what  is  recognized  as  soon  as  per- 
ceived, we  must  not  stray  further;  the  eye 
should  delight  in  a  thousand  pleasing  or 
majestic  spectacles,  should  rejoice  in  a 
thousand  varied  and  surprising  combina- 
tions, whose  apparent  confusion  would 
never  be  without  concord  and  harmony. 
The  oldest  of  the  wise  men  and  poets, 
those  who  put  human  morality  into  max- 
ims, and  those  who  in  simple  fashion  sung 
it,  would  converse  together  in  rare  and 
gentle  speech,  and  would  not  be  surprised 
at  understanding  each  other's  meaning 
at  the  very  first  word.  Solon,  Hesiod, 
Theognis,  Job,  Solomon,  and  why  not 
Confucius,  would  welcome  the  cleverest 
moderns,  La  Rochefoucauld  and  La  Bru- 
yere,  who,  when  listening  to  them,  would 
say  "they  knew  all  that  we  know,  and  in 
repeating  life's  experiences,  we  have  dis- 
covered nothing."  On  the  hill,  most 
easily  discernible,  and  of  most  accessible 
ascent,  Virgil,  surrounded  by  Menander, 
Tibullus,  Terence,  Fenelon,  would  occupy 
himself  in  discoursing  with  them  with 
great  charm  and  divine  enchantment: 
his  gentle  countenance  would  shine  with 
an  inner  light,  and  be  tinged  with  modesty; 
as  on  the  day  when  entering  the  theater 
at  Rome,  just  as  they  finished  reciting  his 


490 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


verses,  he  saw  the  people  rise  with  an 
unanimous  movement  and  pay  to  him  the 
same  homage  as  to  Augustus.  Not  far 
from  him,  regretting  the  separation  from 
so  dear  a  friend,  Horace,  in  his  turn, 
would  preside  (as  far  as  so  accomplished 
and  wise  a  poet  could  preside)  over  the 
group  of  poets  of  social  life  who  could  talk 
although  they  sang, — Pope,  Boileau,  the 
one  become  less  irritable,  the  other  less 
faultfinding.  Montaigne,  a  true  poet, 
would  be  among  them,  and  would  give 
the  finishing  touch  that  should  deprive 
that  delightful  corner  of  the  air  of  a  lit- 
erary school.  There  would  La  Fontaine 
forget  himself,  and  becoming  less  volatile 
would  wander  no  more.  Voltaire  would 
be  attracted  by  it,  but  while  finding  pleas- 
ure in  it  would  not  have  patience  to  re- 
main. A  little  lower  down,  on  the  same 
hill  as  Virgil,  Xenophon,  with  simple 
bearing,  looking  in  no  way  like  a  general, 
but  rather  resembling  a  priest  of  the 
Muses,  would  be  seen  gathering  round  him 
the  Attics  of  every  tongue  and  of  every 
nation,  the  Addisons,  Pellissons,  Vau- 
venargues — all  who  feel  the  value  of  an 
easy  persuasiveness,  an  exquisite  sim- 
plicity, and  a  gentle  negligence  mingled 
with  ornament.  In  the  center  of  the 
place,  in  the  portico  of  the  principal  tem- 
ple (for  there  would  be  several  in  the  en- 
closure), three  great  men  would  like  to 
meet  often,  and  when  they  were  together, 
no  fourth,  however  great,  would  dream  of 
joining  their  discourse  or  their  silence. 
In  them  would  be  seen  beauty,  propor- 
tion in  greatness,  and  that  perfect  har- 
mony which  appears  but  once  in  the  full 
youth  of  the  world.  Their  three  names 
have  become  the  ideal  of  art — Plato,  Soph- 
ocles, and  Demosthenes.  Those  demi- 
gods honored,  we  see  a  numerous  and  fa- 
miliar company  of  choice  spirits  who  follow, 
the  Cervantes  and  Molieres,  practical 
painters  of  life,  indulgent  friends  who  are 
still  the  first  of  benefactors,  who  laughingly 
embrace  all  mankind,  turn  man's  experi- 
ence to  gaiety,  and  know  the  powerful 
workings  of  a  sensible,  hearty,  and  legiti- 
mate joy.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  this  de- 
scription, which  if  complete  would  611  a  vol- 


ume, any  longer.  In  the  middle  ages,  be< 
lieve  me,  Dante  would  occupy  the  sacred 
heights:  at  the  feet  of  the  singer  of  Para- 
dise all  Italy  would  be  spread  out  like  a 
garden;  Boccaccio  and  Ariosto  would 
there  disport  themselves,  and  Tasso  would 
find  again  the  orange  groves  of  Sorrento. 
Usually  a  corner  would  be  reserved  for 
each  of  the  various  nations,  but  the 
authors  would  take  delight  in  leaving  it, 
and  in  their  travels  would  recognize, 
where  we  should  least  expect  it,  brothers 
or  masters.  Lucretius,  for  example,  would 
enjoy  discussing  the  origin  of  the  world 
and  the  reducing  of  chaos  to  order  with 
Milton.  But  both  arguing  from  their  own 
point  of  view,  they  would  only  agree  as  re- 
gards divine  pictures  of  poetry  and  nature. 

Such  are  our  classics;  each  individual 
imagination  may  finish  the  sketch  and 
choose  the  group  preferred.  For  it  is  nec- 
essary to  make  a  choice,  and  the  first  con- 
dition of  taste,  after  obtaining  knowledge 
of  all,  lies  not  in  continual  travel,  but  in 
rest  and  cessation  from  wandering.  Noth- 
ing blunts  and  destroys  taste  so  much  as 
endless  journeyings;  the  poetic  spirit  is 
not  the  Wandering  Jew.  However,  when 
I  speak  of  resting  and  making  choice, 
my  meaning  is  not  that  we  are  to  imitate 
those  who  charm  us  most  among  our 
masters  in  the  past.  Let  us  be  content  to 
know  them,  to  penetrate  them,  to  admire 
them;  but  let  us,  the  late-comers,  endeavor 
to  be  ourselves.  Let  us  have  the  sin- 
cerity and  naturalness  of  our  own 
thoughts,  of  our  own  feelings;  so  much  is 
always  possible.  To  that  let  us  add  what 
is  more  difficult,  elevation,  an  aim,  if 
possible,  towards  an  exalted  goal;  and 
while  speaking  our  own  language,  and  sub- 
mitting to  the  conditions  of  the  times  in 
which  we  live,  whence  we  derive  our 
strength  and  our  defects,  let  us  ask  from 
time  to  tune,  our  brows  lifted  towards 
the  heights  and  our  eyes  fixed  on  the 
group  of  honored  mortals:  what  would  they 
say  of  us? 

But  why  speak  always  of  authors  and 
writings?  Maybe  an  age  is  coming  when 
there  will  be  no  more  writing.  Happy 
those  who  read  and  read  again,  those  who 


ESSAYS 


491 


in  their  reading  can  follow  their  unre- 
strained inclination!  There  comes  a  time 
in  life  when,  all  our  journeys  over,  our 
experiences  ended,  there  is  no  enjoyment 
more  delightful  than  to  study  and  thor- 
oughly examine  the  things  we  know,  to 
take  pleasure  in  what  we  feel,  and  in  seeing 
and  seeing  again  the  people  we  love: 
the  pure  joys  of  our  maturity.  Then 
it  is  that  the  word  classic  takes  its  true 
meaning,  and  is  denned  for  every  man  of 
taste  by  an  irresistible  choice.  Then 
taste  is  formed,  it  is  shaped  and  definite; 
then  good  sense,  if  we  are  to  possess  it  at 
all,  is  perfected  in  us.  We  have  neither 
more  tune  for  experiments,  nor  a  desire 
to  go  forth  in  search  of  pastures  new. 
We  cling  to  our  friends,  to  those  proved 
by  a  long  intercourse.  Old  wine,  old 
books,  old  friends.  We  say  to  ourselves 
with  Voltaire  in  these  delightful  lines: — 


"Let  us  enjoy,  let  us  write,  let  us  live,  my 
dear  Horace!  .  .  .  I  have  lived  longer 
than  you:  my  verse  will  not  last  so  long. 
But  on  the  brink  of  the  tomb  I  shall  make 
it  my  chief  care— to  follow  the  lessons  of 
your  philosophy— to  despise  death  in  en- 
joying life — to  read  your  writings  full  of 
charm  and  good  sense — as  we  drink  an 
old  wine  which  revives  our  senses." 

In  fact,  be  it  Horace  or  another  who  is 
the  author  preferred,  who  reflects  our 
thoughts  hi  all  the  wealth  of  their  maturity, 
of ^  some  one  of  those  excellent  and  antique 
minds  shall  we  request  an  interview  at 
every  moment;  of  some  one  of  them  shall 
we  ask  a  friendship  which  never  deceives, 
which  could  not  fail  us;  to  some  one  of 
them  shall  we  appeal  for  that  sensation  of 
serenity  and  amenity  (we  have  often  need 
of  it)  which  reconciles  us  with  mankind 
and  with  ourselves. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  (1809-1849) 

Poe,  besides  being  a  poet  and  story  writer  of  the  first  rank  in  American  literature,  was  also, 
thanks  to  his  intense  intellect  and  a  strong  bent  for  analytical  reasoning,  a  critic.  In  the  following 
essay  we  have  a  good  example  of  his  original  and  constructive  criticism.  Principles  here  announced  in 
relation  to  "The  Raven"  may  be  recognized  as  guiding  Poe  in  the  composition  of  his  most  famous 
stories. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION 

CHARLES  DICKENS,  in  a  note  now  lying 
before  me,  alluding  to  an  examination 
I  once  made  of  the  mechanism  of  "Bar- 
naby  Rudge,"  says:  "By  the  way,  are 
you  aware  that  Godwin  wrote  his  'Caleb 
Williams'  backwards?  He  first  involved 
his  hero  in  a  web  of  difficulties,  forming 
the  second  volume,  and  then,  for  the  first, 
cast  about  him  for  some  mode  of  account- 
ing for  what  had  been  done." 

I  cannot  think  this  the  precise  mode  of 
procedure  on  the  part  of  Godwin, — and 
indeed  what  he  acknowledges,  is  not  alto- 
gether in  accordance  with  Mr.  Dickens's 
idea,— but  the  author  of  "  Caleb  Williams" 
was  too  good  an  artist  not  to  perceive  the 
advantage  derivable  from  at  least  a  some- 
what similar  process.  Nothing  is  more 
clear  than  that  every  plot,  worth  the 
name,  must  be  elaborated  to  its  denoue- 


ment before  anything  be  attempted  with 
the  pen.  It  is  only  with  the  denouement 
constantly  in  view  that  we  can  give  a  plot 
its  indispensable  air  of  consequence,  or 
causation,  by  making  the  incidents,  and 
especially  the  tone  at  all  points,  tend  to 
the  development  of  the  intention. 

There  is  a  radical  error,  I  think,  in  the 
usual  mode  of  constructing  a  story. 
Either  history  affords  a  thesis,  or  one  is 
suggested  by  an  incident  of  the  day, — 
or  at  best,  the  author  sets  himself  to  work 
in  the  combination  of  striking  events  to 
form  merely  the  basis  of  his  narrative, 
designing,  generally,  to  fill  in  with  de- 
scription, dialogue,  or  autorial  comment, 
whatever  crevices  of  fact,  or  action,  may, 
from  page  to  page,  render  themselves 
apparent. 

I  prefer  commencing  with  the  consider- 
ation of  an  e/ect.  Keeping  originality 
always  in  view, — for  he  is  false  to  himself 


49  2 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


who  ventures  to  dispense  with  so  obvious 
and  so  easily  attainable  a  source  of  interest, 
—I  say  to  myself,  in  the  first  place,  "Of 
the  innumerable  effects,  or  impressions, 
of  which  the  heart,  the  intellect,  or  (more 
generally)  the  soul  is  susceptible,  what  one 
shall  I,  on  the  present  occasion,  select?" 
Having  chosen  a  novel,  first,  and  secondly 
a  vivid  effect,  I  consider  whether  it  can  be 
best  wrought  by  incident  or  tone, — 
whether  by  ordinary  incidents  and  peculiar 
tone,  or  the  converse,  or  by  peculiarity 
both  of  incident  and  tone, — afterward 
looking  about  me  (or  rather  within)  for 
such  combinations  of  event,  or  tone,  as 
shall  best  aid  me  in  the  construction  of  the 
effect. 

I  have  often  thought  how  interesting  a 
magazine  paper  might  be  written  by  any 
author  who  would — that  is  to  say,  who 
could — detail,  step  by  step,  the  processes 
by  which  any  one  of  his  compositions  at- 
.tained  its  ultimate  point  of  completion. 
Why  such  a  paper  has  never  been  given  to 
the  world,  I  am  much  at  a  loss  to  say;  but, 
perhaps,  the  autorial  vanity  has  had  more 
to  do  with  the  omission  than  any  one 
other  cause.  Most  writers — poets  in  espe- 
cial— prefer  having  it  understood  that 
they  compose  by  a  species  of  fine  frenzy — 
an  ecstatic  intuition — and  would  posi- 
tively shudder  at  letting  the  public  take 
a  peep  behind  the  scenes,  at  the  elaborate 
and  vacillating  crudities  of  thought — at 
the  true  purposes  seized  only  at  the  last 
moment — at  the  innumerable  glimpses 
of  idea  that  arrived  not  at  the  maturity  of 
full  view — at  the  fully  matured  fancies 
discarded  in  despair  as  unmanageable — 
at  the  cautious  selections  and  rejections — 
at  the  painful  erasures  and  interpolations 
— in  a  word,  at  the  wheels  and  pinions — 
the  tackle  for  scene-shifting — the  step- 
ladders  and  demon-traps — the  cock's  feath- 
ers, the  red  paint  and  the  black  patches, 
which,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  the  hun- 
dred, constitute  the  properties  of  the 
literary  histrio. 

I  am  aware,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the 
case  is  by  no  means  common,  in  which  an 
author  is  at  all  in  condition  to  retrace  the 
steps  by  which  his  conclusions  have  been 


attained.  In  general,  suggestions,  having 
arisen  pell-mell,  are  pursued  and  forgotten 
in  a  similar  manner. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  neither  sym- 
pathy with  the  repugnance  alluded  to, 
nor  at  any  time  the  least  difficulty  in 
recalling  to  mind  the  progressive  steps 
of  any  of  my  compositions;  and,  since  the 
interest  of  an  analysis,  or  reconstruction, 
such  as  I  have  considered  a  desideratum, 
is  quite  independent  of  any  real  or  fancied 
interest  in  the  thing  analyzed,  it  will 
not  be  regarded  as  a  breach  of  decorum 
on  my  part  to  show  the  modus  operandi 
by  which  some  of  my  own  works  were  put 
together.  I  select  "The  Raven,"  as 
most  generally  known.  It  is  my  design 
to  render  it  manifest  that  no  one  point  in 
its  composition  is  referable  either  to  acci- 
dent or  intuition, — that  the  work  pro 
ceeded,  step  by  step,  to  its  completion, 
with  the  precision  and  rigid  consequence  of 
a  mathematical  problem. 

Let  us  dismiss,  as  irrelevant  to  the  poem, 
per  se,  the  circumstance — or  say  the  ne- 
cessity— which,  in  the  first  place,  gave  rise 
to  the  intention  of  composing  a  poem  that 
should  suit  at  once  the  popular  and  the 
critical  taste. 

We  commence,  then,  with  this  intention. 

The  initial  consideration  was  that  of 
extent.  If  any  literary  work  is  too  long 
to  be  read  at  one  sitting,  we  must  be  con- 
tent to  dispense  with  the  immensely  im- 
portant effect  derivable  from  unity  of 
impression ;  for  if  two  sittings  be  required, 
the  affairs  of  the  world  interfere,  and 
everything  like  totality  is  at  once  de- 
stroyed. But  since,  ceteris  paribus,  no 
poet  can  afford  to  dispense  with  anything 
that  may  advance  his  design,  it  but  re- 
mains to  be  seen  whether  there  is,  in 
extent,  any  advantage  to  counterbalance 
the  loss  of  unity  which  attends  it.  Here 
I  say  no,  at  once.  What  we  term  a  long 
poem  is,  in  fact,  merely  a  succession  of 
brief  ones, — that  is  to  say,  of  brief  poetical 
effects.  It  is  needless  to  demonstrate 
that  a  poem  is  such,  only  inasmuch  as 
it  intensely  excites,  by  elevating,  the  soul; 
and  all  intense  excitements  are,  through  a 
psychal  necessity,  brief.  For  this  reason, 


ESSAYS 


493 


at  least  one  half  of  the  "Paradise  Lost" 
is  essentially  prose, — a  succession  of 
poetical  excitements  interspersed,  inevit- 
ably, with  corresponding  depressions, — 
the  whole  being  deprived,  through  the 
extremeness  of  its  length,  of  the  vastly 
important  artistic  element,  totality,  or 
unity,  of  effect. 

It  appears  evident,  then,  that  there  is  a 
distinct  limit,  as  regards  length,  to  all 
works  of  literary  art,  — the  limit  of  a  single 
sitting, — and  that,  although  in  certain 
classes  of  prose  composition,  such  as 
"Robinson  Crusoe,"  (demanding  no 
unity,)  this  limit  may  be  advantageously 
overpassed,  it  can  never  properly  be  over- 
passed in  a  poem.  Within  this  limit, 
the  extent  of  a  poem  may  be  made  to  bear 
mathematical  relation  to  its  merit, — 
in  other  words,  \o  the  excitement  or  ele- 
vation,— again,  in  other  words,  to  the 
degree  of  the  true  poetical  effect  which 
it  is  capable  of  inducing;  for  it  is  clear 
that  the  brevity  must  be  in  direct  ratio 
of  the  intensity  of  the  intended  effect: 
this,  with  one  proviso — that  a  certain 
degree  of  duration  is  absolutely  requisite 
for  the  production  of  any  effect  at  all. 

Holding  in  view  these  considerations, 
as  well  as  that  degree  of  excitement  which 
I  deemed  not  above  the  popular,  while 
not  below  the  critical,  taste,  I  reached  at 
once  what  I  conceived  the  proper  length 
for  my  intended  poem, — a  length  of  about 
one  hundred  lines.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  hun- 
dred and  eight. 

My  next  thought  concerned  the  choice 
of  an  impression,  or  effect,  to  be  conveyed: 
and  here  I  may  as  well  observe  that, 
throughout  the  construction,  I  kept  stead- 
ily in  view  the  design  of  rendering  the 
work  universally  appreciable.  I  should 
be  carried  too  far  out  of  my  immediate 
topic  were  I  to  demonstrate  a  point  upon 
which  I  have  repeatedly  insisted,  and 
which,  with  the  poetical,  stands  not  in  the 
slightest  need  of  demonstration, — the 
point,  I  mean,  that  Beauty  is  the  sole 
legitimate  province  of  the  poem.  A  few 
words,  however,  in  elucidation  of  my  real 
meaning,  which  some  of  my  friends  have 
evinced  a  disposition  to  misrepresent. 


That  pleasure  which  is  at  once  the  most 
intense,  the  most  elevating,  and  the  most 
pure,  is,  I  believe,  found  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  beautiful.  When,  indeed, 
men  speak  of  Beauty,  they  mean,  pre- 
cisely, not  a  quality,  as  is  supposed,  but 
an  effect, — they  refer,  in  short,  just  to  that 
intense  and  pure  elevation  of  soul — not 
of  intellect,  or  of  heart — upon  which  I 
have  commented,  and  which  is  experi- 
ienced  in  consequence  of  contemplating 
"  the  beautiful."  Now  I  designate  Beauty 
as  the  province  of  the  poem,  merely  be- 
cause it  is  an  obvious  rule  of  Art  that 
effects  should  be  made  to  spring  from 
direct  causes, — that  objects  should  be 
attained  through  means  best  adapted  for 
their  attainment, — no  one  as  yet  having 
been  weak  enough  to  deny  that  the  pe- 
culiar elevation  alluded  to  is  most  readily 
attained  in  the  poem.  Now  the  object, 
Truth,  or  the  satisfaction  of  the  intellect, 
and  the  object  Passion,  or  the  excitement 
of  the  heart,  are  although  attainable  to  a 
certain  extent,  in  poetry,  far  more  readily 
attainable  in  prose.  Truth,  in  fact,  de- 
mands a  precision,  and  Passion  a  homeliness 
(the  truly  passionate  will  comprehend 
me)  which  are  absolutely  antagonistic  to 
that  Beauty  which,  I  maintain,  is  the 
excitement,  or  pleasurable  elevation,  of 
the  soul.  It  by  no  means  follows  from 
anything  here  said,  that  passion,  or  even 
truth,  may  not  be  introduced,  and  even 
profitably  introduced,  into  a  poem, — 
for  they  may  serve  in  elucidation,  or  aid 
the  general  effect,  as  do  discords  in  music, 
by  contrast, — but  the  true  artist  will 
always  contrive,  first,  to  tone  them  into 
proper  subservience  to  the  predominant 
ami,  and,  secondly,  to  enveil  them,  as 
far  as  possible,  in  that  Beauty  which  is  the 
atmosphere  and  the  essence  of  the  poem. 

Regarding,  then,  Beauty  as  my  province, 
my  next  question  referred  to  the  tone  of  its 
highest  manifestation,  —  and  all  expe- 
rience has  shown  that  this  tone  is  one  of 
sadness.  Beauty  of  whatever  kind,  in  its 
supreme  development,  invariably  excites 
the  sensitive  soul  to  tears.  Melancholy 
is  thus  the  most  legitimate  of  all  the 
poetical  tones. 


494 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


The  length,  the  province,  and  the  tone, 
being  thus  determined,  I  betook  myself 
to  ordinary  induction,  with  the  view  of 
obtaining  some  artistic  piquancy  which 
might  serve  me  as  a  keynote  in  the  con- 
struction of  the  poem, — some  pivot  upon 
which  the  whole  structure  might  turn. 
In  carefully  thinking  over  all  the  usual 
artistic  effects, — or  more  properly  points 
in  the  theatrical  sense, — I  did  not  fail  to 
perceive  immediately  that  no  one  had 
been  so  universally  employed  as  that  of 
the  refrain.  The  universality  of  its  em- 
ployment sufficed  to  assure  me  of  its  in- 
trinsic value,  and  spared  me  the  neces- 
sity of  submitting  it  to  analysis.  I  con- 
sidered it,  however,  with  regard  to  its 
susceptibility  of  improvement,  and  soon 
saw  it  to  be  in  a  primitive  condition.  As 
commonly  used,  the  refrain,  or  burden, 
not  only  is  limited  to  lyric  verse,  but  de- 
pends for  its  impression  upon  the  force 
of  monotone — both  in  sound  and  thought. 
The  pleasure  is  deduced  solely  from  the 
sense  of  identity — of  repetition.  I  re- 
solved to  diversify,  and  so  heighten,  the 
effect,  by  adhering,  in  general,  to  the 
monotone  of  sound,  while  I  continually 
varied  that  of  thought:  that  is  to  say,  I 
determined  to  produce  continuously  novel 
effects,  by  the  variation  of  the  applica- 
tion of  the  refrain, — the  refrain  itself  re- 
maining, for  the  most  part,  unvaried. 

These  points  being  settled,  I  next  be- 
thought me  of  the  nature  of  my  refrain. 
Since  its  application  was  to  be  repeatedly 
varied,  it  was  clear  that  the  refrain  itself 
must  be  brief,  for  there  would  have  been 
an  insurmountable  difficulty  in  frequent 
variations  of  application  in  any  sentence 
of  length.  In  proportion  to  the  brevity 
of  the  sentence,  would,  of  course,  be  the 
facility  of  the  variation.  This  led  me  at 
once  to  a  single  word  as  the  best  refrain. 

The  question  now  arose  as  to  the 
character  of  the  word.  Having  made  up 
my  mind  to  a  refrain,  the  division  of  the 
poem  into  stanzas  was,  of  course,  a  corol- 
lary,— the  refrain  forming  the  close  to 
each  stanza.  That  such  a  close,  to  have 
force,  must  be  sonorous  and  susceptible 
of  protracted  emphasis,  admitted  no 


doubt:  and  these  considerations  inev- 
itably led  me  to  the  long  o  as  the  most 
sonorous  vowel,  in  connection  with  r  as 
the  most  producible  consonant. 

The  sound  of  the  refrain  being  thus 
determined,  it  became  necessary  to  select 
a  word  embodying  this  sound,  and  at  the 
same  time  in  the  fullest  possible  keeping 
with  that  melancholy  which  I  had  predeter- 
mined as  the  tone  of  the  poem.  In  such  a 
search  it  would  have  been  absolutely  im- 
possible to  overlook  the  word  "Never- 
more." In  fact,  it  was  the  very  first 
which  presented  itself. 

The  next  desideratum  was  a  pretext  for 
the  continuous  use  of  the  one  word 
' '  Nevermore. ' '  In  observing  the  difficulty 
which  I  at  once  found  in  inventing  a  suf- 
ficiently plausible  reason  for  its  continuous 
repetition,  I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  that 
this  difficulty  arose  solely  from  the  pre- 
assumption  that  the  word  was  to  be  so 
continuously  or  monotonously  spoken  by  a 
human  being, — I  did  not  fail  to  perceive, 
in  short,  that  the  difficulty  lay  in  the  recon- 
ciliation of  this  monotony  with  the  exer- 
cise of  reason  on  the  part  of  the  creature 
repeating  the  word.  Here,  then,  imme- 
diately arose  the  idea  of  a  wow-reasoning 
creature  capable  of  speech;  and,  very 
naturally,  a  parrot,  in  the  first  instance, 
suggested  itself,  but  was  superseded  forth- 
with by  a  Raven,  as  equally  capable  of 
speech,  and  infinitely  more  in  keeping 
with  the  intended  tone. 

I  had  now  gone  so  far  as  the  concep- 
tion of  a  Raven — the  bird  of  ill  omen — 
monotonously  repeating  the  one  word, 
"Nevermore,"  at  the  conclusion  of  each 
stanza,  in  a  poem  of  melancholy  tone 
and  in  length  about  one  hundred  lines. 
Now,  never  losing  sight  of  the  object 
supremeness,  or  perfection,  at  all  points,  I 
asked  myself,  "Of  all  melancholy  topics, 
what,  according  to  the  universal  under- 
standing of  mankind,  is  the  most  melan- 
choly?" Death — was  the  obvious  reply. 
"And  when,"  I  said,  "is  this  most  mel- 
ancholy of  topics  most  poetical?"  From 
what  I  have  already  explained  at  some 
length,  the  answer  here  also  is  obvious, 
"When  it  most  closely  allies  itself  to 


ESSAYS 


Beauty:  the  death,  then,  of  a  beautiful 
woman  is,  unquestionably,  the  most  poeti- 
cal topic  in  the  world;  and  equally  is  it 
beyond  doubt  that  the  lips  best  suited  for 
such  topics  are  those  of  a  bereaved  lover." 
I  had  now  to  combine  the  two  ideas  of 
a  lover  lamenting  his  deceased  mistress 
and  a  Raven  continuously  repeating  the 
word  "Nevermore."    I  had  to  combine 
these,  bearing  hi  mind  my  design  of  vary- 
ing, at  every  turn,  the  application  of  the 
word  repeated;  but  the  only  intelligible 
mode  of  such  combination  is  that  of  im- 
agining the  Raven  employing  the  word  in 
answer  to  the  queries  of  the  lover.    And 
here  it  was  that  I  saw  at  once  the  oppor- 
tunity afforded  for  the  effect  on  which  I 
had  been  depending, — that  is  to  say,  the 
effect    of    the    -variation    of    application. 
I  saw  that  I  could  make  the  first  query 
propounded  by  the  lover — the  first  query 
to  which  the  Raven  should  reply  "Never- 
more"— that  I  could  make  this  first  query 
a  commonplace  one — the  second  less  so — 
the  third  still  less,  and  so  on — until  at 
length  the  lover,  startled  from  his  original 
nonchalance  by  the  melancholy  character 
of  the  word  itself — by  its  frequent  repe- 
tition— and   by   a   consideration   of   the 
ominous  reputation  of  the  fowl  that  ut- 
tered it — is  at  length  excited  to  super- 
stition, and  wildly  propounds  queries  of 
a  far  different  character — queries  whose 
solution  he  has  passionately  at  heart — 
propounds  them  half  in  superstition  and 
half  in  that  species  of  despair  which  de- 
lights   in  self-torture — propounds   them, 
not  altogether  because  he  believes  hi  the 
prophetic  or  demoniac  character  of  the 
bird  (which,  reason  assures  him,  is  merely 
repeating  a  lesson  learned  by  rote),  but 
because  he  experiences  a  frenzied  pleasure 
in  so  modelling  his  questions  as  to  receive 
from  the  expected  "Nevermore"  the  most 
delicious  because  the  most  intolerable  of 
sorrow.     Perceiving  the  opportunity  thus 
afforded     me — or,    more    strictly,    thus 
forced  upon  me  hi  the  progress  of  the  con- 
struction— I  first  established  hi  mind  the 
climax,  or  concluding  query — that  query 
to  which  "Nevermore"  should  be  in  the 
last  place  an  answer — that  in  reply  to  which 


this  word  "Nevermore"  should  involve  the 
utmost  conceivable  amount  of  sorrow  and 
despair. 

Here,  then,  the  poem  may  be  said  to 
have  its  beginning— at  the  end,  where  all 
works  of  art  should  begin,— for  it  was 
here,  at  this  point  of  my  preconsiderations, 
that  I  first  put  pen  to  paper  in  the  com- 
position of  the  stanza, — 

"Prophet!"  cried  I,  "thing  of  evil!— prophet  still, 
if  bird  or  devil! 

By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us— by  that  God 
we  both  adore! — 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  dis- 
tant Aiden, 

It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore, — 

Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

I  composed  this  stanza,  at  this  point, 
first,  that,  by  establishing  the  climax,  I 
might  the  better  vary  and  graduate,  as 
regards  seriousness  and  importance,  the 
preceding  queries  of  the  lover;  and,  sec- 
ondly, that  I  might  definitely  settle  the 
rhythm,  the  meter,  and  the  length  and 
general  arrangement  of  the  stanza,  as  well 
as  graduate  the  stanzas  which  were  to 
precede,  so  that  none  of  them  might  sur- 
pass this  in  rhythmical  effect.  Had  I 
been  able,  in  the  subsequent  composition, 
to  construct  more  vigorous  stanzas,  I 
should,  without  scruple,  have  purposely 
enfeebled  them,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with 
the  climacteric  effect. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  say  a  few  words 
of  the  versification.  My  first  object  (as 
usual)  was  originality.  The  extent  to 
which  this  has  been  neglected,  in  versifi- 
cation, is  one  of  the  most  unaccountable 
things  in  the  world.  Admitting  that 
there  is  little  possibility  of  variety  in  mere 
rhythm,  it  is  still  clear  that  the  possible 
varieties  of  meter  and  stanza  are  abso- 
lutely infinite;  and  yet,  for  centuries,  no 
man,  in  verse,  has  ever  done,  or  ever  seemed 
to  think  of  doing,  an  original  thing.  The 
fact  is,  that  originality  (unless  in  minds 
of  very  unusual  force)  is  by  no  means  a 
matter,  as  some  suppose,  of  impulse  or 
intuition.  In  general,  to  be  found,  it  ( 


496 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


must  be  elaborately  sought,  and  although 
a  positive  merit  of  the  highest  class,  de- 
mands in  its  attainment  less  of  invention 
than  negation. 

Of  course,  I  pretend  to  no  originality  in 
either  the  rhythm  or  meter  of  "The 
Raven."  The  former  is  trochaic, — the 
latter  is  octameter  acatalectic,  alternating 
with  heptameter  catalectic  repeated  in 
the  refrain  of  the  fifth  verse,  and  terminat- 
ing with  tetrameter  catalectic.  Less  pe- 
dantically, the  feet  employed  throughout 
(trochees)  consist  of  a  long  syllable  fol- 
lowed by  a  short:  the  first  line  of  the 
stanza  consists  of  eight  of  these  feet, 
the  second  of  seven  and  a  half  (in  effect 
two  thirds),  the  third  of  eight,  the  fourth 
of  seven  and  a  half,  the  fifth  the  same,  the 
sixth  three  and  a  half.  Now,  each  of 
these  lines,  taken  individually,  has  been 
employed  before,  and  what  originality 
"The  Raven"  has,  is  in  their  combination 
into  stanza;  nothing  even  remotely  ap- 
proaching this  combination  has  ever  been 
attempted.  The  effect  of  this  originality 
of  combination  is  aided  by  other  unusual, 
and  some  altogether  novel  effects,  arising 
from  an  extension  of  the  application  of  the 
principles  of  rhyme  and  alliteration. 

The  next  point  to  be  considered  was 
the  mode  of  bringing  together  the  lover 
and  the  Raven, — and  the  first  branch  of 
this  consideration  was  the  locale.  For 
this  the  most  natural  suggestion  might 
seem  to  be  a  forest,  or  the  field;  but  it  has 
always  appeared  to  me  that  a  close  cir- 
cumscription of  space  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  the  effect  of  insulated  incident: 
it  has  the  force  of  a  frame  to  a  picture. 
It  has  an  indisputable  moral  power  in 
keeping  concentrated  the  attention,  and, 
of  course,  must  not  be  confounded  with 
mere  unity  of  place. 

I  determined,  then,  to  place  the  lover 
in  his  chamber, — in  a  chamber  rendered 
sacred  to  him  by  memories  of  her  who  had 
frequented  it.  The  room  is  represented 
as  richly  furnished, — this  in  mere  pur- 
suance of  the  ideas  I  have  already  ex- 
plained on  the  subject  of  Beauty,  as  the 
sole  true  poetical  thesis. 

The   locale   being   thus   determined,   I 


had  now  to  introduce  the  bird, — and  the 
thought  of  introducing  him  through  the 
window  was  inevitable.  The  idea  of 
making  the  lover  suppose,  in  the  first 
instance,  that  the  flapping  of  the  wings 
of  the  bird  against  the  shutter  is  a  "tap- 
ping" at  the  door,  originated  in  a  wish  to 
increase,  by  prolonging,  the  reader's 
curiosity,  and  in  a  desire  to  admit  the 
incidental  effect  arising  from  the  lover's 
throwing  open  the  door,  finding  all  dark, 
and  thence  adopting  the  half-fancy  that  it 
was  the  spirit  of  his  mistress  that  knocked. 

I  made  the  night  tempestuous,  first,  to 
account  for  the  Raven  seeking  admission; 
and  secondly,  for  the  effect  of  contrast 
with  the  (physical)  serenity  within  the 
chamber. 

I  made  the  bird  alight  on  the  bust  of 
Pallas,  also  for  the  effect  of  contrast  be- 
tween the  marble  and  the  plumage, — it 
being  understood  that  the  bust  was  abso- 
lutely suggested  by  the  bird, — the  bust  of 
Pallas  being  chosen,  first,  as  most  in 
keeping  with  the  scholarship  of  the  lover; 
and,  secondly,  for  the  sonorousness  of  the 
word  Pallas,  itself. 

About  the  middle  of  the  poem,  also,  I 
have  availed  myself  of  the  force  of  con- 
trast, with  the  view  of  deepening  the  ulti- 
mate impression.  For  example,  an  air 
of  the  fantastic — approaching  as  nearly  to 
the  ludicrous  as  was  admissible — is  given 
to  the  Raven's  entrance.  He  comes  in 
"with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter." 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he, — not  a  moment 

stopped  or  stayed  he, — 
But  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber-door. 

In  the  two  stanzas  which  follow,  the 
design  is  more  obviously  carried  out: — 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 

smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance 

it  wore, — 
"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I 

said,  "art  sure  no  craven, — 
Ghastly,  grim  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from 

the  nightly  shore, — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's 

Plutonian  shore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


ESSAYS 


Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  dis- 
course so  plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy 
bore; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 
being 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his 
chamber-door, — 

Bira  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his 
chamber-door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

The  effect  of  the  denouement  being  thus 
provided  for,  I  immediately  drop  the 
fantastic  for  a  tone  of  the  most  profound 
seriousness, — this  tone  commencing  in 
the  stanza  directly  following  the  one  last 
quoted,  with  the  fine, — 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust, 
spoke  only,  etc. 

From  this  epoch  the  lover  no  longer 
jests, — no  longer  sees  anything  even  of 
the  fantastic  in  the  Raven's  demeanor. 
He  speaks  of  him  as  a  "grim,  ungainly, 
ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore," 
and  feels  the  "fiery  eyes"  burning  into 
his  "bosom's  core."  This  revolution  of 
thought,  or  fancy,  on  the  lover's  part,  is 
intended  to  induce  a  similar  one  on  the  part 
of  the  reader, — to  bring  the  mind  into  a 
proper  frame  for  the  denouement, — which 
is  now  brought  about  as  rapidly  and  as 
directly  as  possible. 

With  the  denouement  proper — with  the 
Raven's  reply,  "Nevermore,"  to  the 
lover's  final  demand  if  he  shall  meet  his 
mistress  in  another  world — the  poem,  in 
its  obvious  phase,  that  of  a  simple  narra- 
tive, may  be  said  to  have  its  completion. 
So  far,  everything  is  within  the  limits  of 
the  accountable, — of  the  real.  A  raven, 
having  learned  by  rote  the  single  word 
"Nevermore,"  and  having  escaped  from 
the  custody  of  its  owner,  is  driven  at  mid- 
night, through  the  violence  of  a  storm,  to 
seek  admission  at  a  window  from  which  a 
light  still  gleams, — the  chamber-window 
of  a  student,  occupied  half  in  poring  over  a 
volume,  half  in  dreaming  of  a  beloved 
mistress  deceased.  The  casement  being 
thrown  open  at  the  fluttering  of  the  bird's 
wings,  the  bird  itself  perches  on  the  most 
convenient  seat  out  of  the  immediate 
teach  of  the  student,  who,  amused  by  the 


497 


incident  and  the  oddity  of  the  visitor's 
demeanor,  demands  of  it,  in  jest  and  with- 
out looking  for  a  reply,  its  name.  The 
raven  addressed,  answers  with  its  cus- 
tomary word,  "Nevermore,"— a  word 
which  finds  immediate  echo  in  the  mel- 
ancholy heart  of  the  student,  who,  giving 
utterance  aloud  to  certain  thoughts  sug- 
gested by  the  occasion,  is  again  startled 
by  the  fowl's  repetition  of  "Nevermore." 
The  student  now  guesses  the  state  of  the 
case,  but  is  impelled,  as  I  have  before  ex- 
plained, by  the  human  thirst  for  self- 
torture,  and  in  part  by  superstition,  to 
propound  such  queries  to  the  bird  as  will, 
bring  him,  the  lover,  the  most  of  the  lux- 
ury of  sorrow,  through  the  anticipated 
answer,  "Nevermore."  With  the  indul- 
gence, to  the  extreme,  of  this  self-torture, 
the  narration,  in  what  I  have  termed  its 
first  or  obvious  phase,  has  a  natural  ter- 
mination; and  so  far  there  has  been  no 
overstepping  of  the  limits  of  the  real. 

But  in  subjects  so  handled,  however 
skilfully,  or  with  however  vivid  an  array 
of  incident,  there  is  always  a  certain  hard- 
ness of  nakedness,  which  repels  the  artis- 
tical  eye.  Two  things  are  invariably  re- 
quired: first,  some  amount  of  complexity, 
or,  more  properly,  adaptation;  and,  sec- 
ondly, some  amount  of  suggestiveness — 
some  undercurrent,  however  indefinite, 
of  meaning.  It  is  this  latter,  in  especial, 
which  imparts  to  a  work  of  art  so  much  of 
that  richness  (to  borrow  from  colloquy 
a  forcible  term)  which  we  are  too  fond  of 
confounding  with  the  ideal.  It  is  the 
excess  of  the  suggested  meaning — it  is  the 
rendering  this  the  upper  instead  of  the 
under  current  of  the  theme — which  turns 
into  prose  (and  that  of  the  very  flattest 
kind)  the  so-called  poetry  of  the  so-called 
transcendentalists. 

Holding  these  opinions,  1  added  the  two 
concluding  stanzas  of  the  poem, — their 
suggestiveness  being  thus  made  to  pervade 
all  the  narrative  which  has  preceded  them. 
The  undercurrent  of  meaning  is  rendered 
first  apparent  in  the  lines — 

"Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy 
form  from  off  my  door!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermotel" 


\ 

498 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


It  will  be  observed  that  the  words 
"from  out  my  heart"  involve  the  first 
metaphorical  expression  in  the  poem. 
They,  with  the  answer,  "Nevermore," 
dispose  the  mind  to  seek  a  moral  in  all 
that  has  been  previously  narrated.  The 
reader  begins  now  to  regard  the  Raven  as 
emblematical;  but  it  is  not  until  the  very 
last  line  of  the  very  last  stanza  that  the 
intention  of  making  him  emblematical  of 
Mournful  and  Never-ending  Remembrance 
is  permitted  distinctly  to  be  seen: — 


And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 

is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his 

shadow  on  the  floor, — 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 

on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore. 


(1846) 


JOHN  RUSKIN  (1819-1900) 

Ruskin,  with  Carlyle,  was  one  of  the  great  preachers  to  his  generation.  He  began  as  a  critic  of  art, 
producing  a  profusion  of  books  on  English  and  Italian  art,  but,  believing  that  great  art  could  be  created 
only  by  a  right-living  and  right-believing  community,  he  gave  himself  during  many  years  to  writing  and 
lecturing  to  the  workingmen  of  England.  Revolting  from  the  ugliness  and  injustice  of  modern  indus- 
trialism, he  preached  the  need  of  creating  other  values  of  duty  and  health  and  spiritual  life.  His  most 
famous  practical  social  experiment  was  the  Guild  of  St.  George,  a  mild  sort  of  community  living  which 
is  still  in  existence.  The  present  essay,  one  of  a  series  of  lectures  delivered  in  Dublin  in  1868,  contains 
some  of  his  wisest  and  most  eloquent  reflections.  The  first  half  only  is  given. 


LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS 

WE  HAVE  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  poets  who 
sang  of  heaven,  and  they  have  told  us  their 
dreams.  We  have  listened  to  the  poets 
who  sang  of  earth,  and  they  have  chanted 
to  us  dirges  and  words  of  despair.  But 
there  is  one  class  of  men  more: — men,  not 
capable  of  vision,  nor  sensitive  to  sorrow, 
but  firm  of  purpose — practised  in  business; 
learned  in  all  that  can  be,  (by  handling,) 
known.  Men,  whose  hearts  and  hopes 
are  wholly  in  this  present  world,  from 
whom,  therefore,  we  may  surely  learn, 
at  least,  how,  at  present,  conveniently  to 
live  in  it.  What  will  they  say  to  us,  or 
show  us  by  example?  These  kings — these 
councillors — these  statesmen  and  build- 
ers of  kingdoms — these  capitalists  and 
men  of  business,  who  weigh  the  earth, 
and  the  dust  of  it,  in  a  balance.  They 
know  the  world,  surely;  and  what  is  the 
mystery  of  life  to  us,  is  none  to  them. 
They  can  surely  show  us  how  to  live, 
while  we  live,  and  to  gather  out  of  the 
present  world  what  is  best. 

I  think  I  can  best  tell  you  their  answer, 
by  telling  you  a  dream  I  had  once.  For 
though  I  am  no  poet,  I  have  dreams  some- 


times:— I  dreamed  I  was  at  a  child's 
May-day  party,  in  which  every  means  of 
entertainment  had  been  provided  for 
them,  by  a  wise  and  kind  host.  It  was 
in  a  stately  house,  with  beautiful  gardens 
attached  to  it;  and  the  children  had  been 
set  free  in  the  rooms  and  gardens,  with  no 
care  whatever  but  how  to  pass  their 
afternoon  rejoicingly.  They  did  not, 
indeed,  know  much  about  what  was  to 
happen  next  day;  and  some  of  them,  I 
thought,  were  a  little  frightened,  because 
there  was  a  chance  of  their  being  sent  to  a 
new  school  where  there  were  examina- 
tions; but  they  kept  the  thoughts  of  that 
out  of  their  heads  as  well  as  they  could, 
and  resolved  to  enjoy  themselves.  The 
house,  I  said,  was  in  a  beautiful  garden, 
and  in  the  garden  were  all  kinds  of  flowers; 
sweet,  grassy  banks  for  rest;  and  smooth 
lawns  for  play;  and  pleasant  streams  and 
woods;  and  rocky  places  for  climbing. 
And  the  children  were  happy  for  a  little 
while,  but  presently  they  separated  them- 
selves into  parties;  and  then  each  party 
declared  it  would  have  a  piece  of  the 
garden  for  its  own,  and  that  none  of  the 
others  should  have  anything  to  do  with 
that  piece.  Next,  they  quarrelled  vio- 


ESSAYS 


499 


lently  which  pieces  they  would  have;  and 
at  last  the  boys  took  up  the  thing,  as 
boys  should  do,  "practically,"  and  fought 
in  the  flower-beds  till  there  was  hardly  a 
flower  left  standing;  then  they  trampled 
down  each  other's  bits  of  the  garden  out 
of  spite;  and  the  girls  cried  till  they  could 
cry  no  more;  and  so  they  all  lay  down  at 
last  breathless  in  the  ruin,  and  waited  for 
the  time  when  they  were  to  be  taken  home 
in  the  evening.* 

Meanwhile,  the  children  in  the  house 
had  been  making  themselves  happy  also 
in  their  manner.  For  them,  there  had 
been  provided  every  kind  of  in-door 
pleasure:  there  was  music  for  them  to 
dance  to;  and  the  library  was  open,  with 
all  manner  of  amusing  books;  and  there 
was  a  museum  full  of  the  most  curious 
shells,  and  animals,  and  birds;  and  there 
was  a  workshop,  with  lathes  and  carpen- 
ters' tools,  for  the  ingenious  boys;  and 
there  were  pretty  fantastic  dresses,  for 
the  girls  to  dress  in;  and  there  were  mi- 
croscopes, and  kaleidoscopes;  and  whatever 
toys  a  child  could  fancy;  and  a  table,  in 
the  dining-room,  loaded  with  everything 
nice  to  eat. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  it  struck 
two  or  three  of  the  more  "practical"  chil- 
dren, that  they  would  like  some  of  the 
brass-headed  nails  that  studded  the  chairs; 
and  so  they  set  to  work  to  pull  them  out. 
Presently,  the  others,  who  were  reading, 
or  looking  at  shells,  took  a  fancy  to  do  the 
like;  and,  in  a  little  while,  all  the  chil- 
dren, nearly,  were  spraining  their  fingers, 
in  pulling  out  brass-headed  nails.  With 
all  that  they  could  pull  out,  they  were  not 
satisfied;  and  then,  everybody  wanted 
some  of  somebody  else's.  And  at  last, 
the  really  practical  and  sensible  ones 
declared,  that  nothing  was  of  any  real 
consequence,  that  afternoon,  except  to  get 
plenty  of  brass-headed  nails;  and  that  the 
books,  and  the  cakes,  and  the  microscopes 
were  of  no  use  at  all  in  themselves,  but 
only,  if  they  could  be  exchanged  for  nail- 
heads.  And  at  last  they  began  to  fight 

•I  have  sometimes  been  asked  what  this  means.  I  in- 
tended it  to  set  forth  the  wisdom  of  men  in  war  contending  for 
kingdoms,  and  what  follows  to  set  forth  their  wisdom  in  peace, 
contending  for  wealth.  [Ruskin.] 


for  nail-heads,  as  the  others  fought  for  the 
bits  of  garden.  Only  here  and  there,  a 
despised  one  shrank  away  into  a  corner, 
and  tried  to  get  a  little  quiet  with  a  book, 
in  the  midst  of  the  noise;  but  all  the  prac- 
tical ones  thought  of  nothing  else  but 
counting  nail-heads  all  the  afternoon- 
even  though  they  knew  they  would  not  be 
allowed  to  carry  so  much  as  one  brass 
knob  away  with  them.  But  no — it  was— 
"who  has  most  nails?  I  have  a  hundred, 
and  you  have  fifty;  or,  I  have  a  thousand, 
and  you  have  two.  I  must  have  as  many 
as  you  before  I  leave  the  house,  or  I  cannot 
possibly  go  home  in  peace."  At  last, 
they  made  so  much  noise  that  I  awoke, 
and  thought  to  myself,  "What  a  false 
dream  that  is,  of  children!"  The  child 
is  the  father  of  the  man;  and  wiser.  Chil- 
dren never  do  such  foolish  things.  Only 
men  do. 

But  there  is  yet  one  last  class  of  persons 
to  be  interrogated.  The  wise  religious 
men  we  have  asked  in  vain;  the  wise  con- 
templative men,  in  vain;  the  wise  worldly 
men,  in  vain.  But  there  is  another  group 
yet.  In  the  midst  of  this  vanity  of  empty 
religion — of  tragic  contemplation — of 
wrathful  and  wretched  ambition,  and  dis- 
pute for  dust,  there  is  yet  one  great  group 
of  persons,  by  whom  all  these  disputers 
live — the  persons  who  have  determined,  or 
have  had  it  by  a  beneficent  Providence 
determined  for  them,  that  they  will  do 
something  useful;  that  whatever  may  be 
prepared  for  them  hereafter,  or  happen  to 
them  here,  they  will,  at  least,  deserve  the 
food  that  God  gives  them  by  winning  it 
honorably:  and  that,  however  fallen 
from  the  purity,  or  far  from  the  peace,  of 
Eden,  they  will  carry  out  the  duty  of 
human  dominion,  though  they  have  lost 
its  felicity;  and  dress  and  keep  the  wilder- 
ness, though  they  no  more  can  dress  or 
keep  the  garden. 

These, — hewers  of  wood,  and  drawers 
of  water, — these,  bent  under  burdens,  or 
torn  of  scourges — these,  that  dig  and 
weave — that  plant  and  build;  workers 
in  wood,  and  in  marble,  and  in  iron — by 
whom  all  food,  clothing,  habitation, 
furniture,  and  means  of  delight  are  pro- 


Soo 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


duced,  for  themselves,  and  for  all  men 
beside;  men,  whose  deeds  are  good, 
though  their  words  may  be  few;  men, 
whose  lives  are  serviceable,  be  they  never 
so  short,  and  worthy  of  honor,  be  they 
never  so  humble; — from  these,  surely,  at 
least,  we  may  receive  some  clear  message 
of  teaching;  and  pierce,  for  an  instant,  into 
the  mystery  of  life,  and  of  its  arts. 

Yes;  from  these,  at  last,  we  do  receive 
a  lesson.  But  I  grieve  to  say,  or  rather — 
for  that  is  the  deeper  truth  of  the  matter — 
I  rejoice  to  say — this  message  of  theirs 
can  only  be  received  by  joining  them — 
not  by  thinking  about  them. 

You  sent  for  me  to  talk  to  you  of  art; 
and  I  have  obeyed  you  in  coming.  But 
the  main  thing  I  have  to  tell  you  is, — 
that  art  must  not  be  talked  about.  The 
fact  that  there  is  talk  about  it  at  all,  sig- 
nifies that  it  is  ill  done,  or  cannot  be  done. 
No  true  painter  ever  speaks,  or  ever  has 
spoken,  much  of  his  art.  The  greatest 
speak  nothing.  Even  Reynolds  is  no 
exception,  for  he  wrote  of  all  that  he 
could  not  himself  do,  and  was  utterly 
silent  respecting  all  that  he  himself  did. 

The  moment  a  man  can  really  do  his 
work  he  becomes  speechless  about  it. 
All  words  become  idle  to  him — all  theories. 

Does  a  bird  need  to  theorize  about  build- 
ing its  nest,  or  boast  of  it  when  built? 
All  good  work  is  essentially  done  that  way 
— without  hesitation,  without  difficulty, 
without  boasting;  and  in  the  doers  of  the 
best,  there  is  an  inner  and  involuntary 
power  which  approximates  literally  to  the 
instinct  of  an  animal — nay,  I  am  certain 
that  in  the  most  perfect  human  artists, 
reason  does  not  supersede  instinct,  but  is 
added  to  an  instinct  as  much  more  divine 
than  that  of  the  lower  animals  as  the  hu- 
man body  is  more  beautiful  than  theirs; 
that  a  great  singer  sings  not  with  less 
instinct  than  the  nightingale,  but  with 
more — only  more  various,  applicable,  and 
governable;  that  a  great  architect  does 
not  build  with  less  instinct  than  the  beaver 
or  the  bee,  but  with  more — with  an  innate 
cunning  of  proportion  that  embraces  all 
beauty,  and  a  divine  ingenuity  of  skill 
that  improvises  all  construction.  But  be 


that  as  it  may— be  the  instinct  less  or 
more  than  that  of  inferior  animals — like  or 
unlike  theirs,  still  the  human  art  is  depen- 
dent on  that  first,  and  then  upon  an 
amount  of  practice,  of  science, — and  of 
imagination  disciplined  by  thought,  which 
the  true  possessor  of  it  knows  to  be  incom- 
municable, and  the  true  critic  of  it,  inex- 
plicable, except  through  long  process  of 
laborious  years.  That  journey  of  life's 
conquest,  in  which  hills  over  hills,  and 
Alps  on  Alps  arose,  and  sank, — do  you 
think  you  can  make  another  trace  it  pain- 
lessly, by  talking?  Why,  you  cannot 
even  carry  us  up  an  Alp,  by  talking.  You 
can  guide  us  up  it,  step  by  step,  no  other- 
wise— even  so,  best  silently.  You  girls, 
who  have  been  among  the  hills,  know 
how  the  bad  guide  chatters  and  gesticu- 
lates, and  it  is  "put  your  foot  here"; 
and  "mind  how  you  balance  yourself 
there";  but  the  good  guide  walks  on 
quietly,  without  a  word,  only  with  his 
eyes  on  you  when  need  is,  and  his  arm 
like  an  iron  bar,  if  need  be. 

In  that  slow  way,  also,  art  can  be 
taught — if  you  have  faith  in  your  guide, 
and  will  let  his  arm  be  to  you  as  an  iron 
bar  when  need  is.  But  in  what  teacher  of 
art  have  you  such  faith?  Certainly  not 
in  me;  for,  as  I  told  you  at  first,  I  know 
well  enough  it  is  only  because  you  think  I 
can  talk,  not  because  you  think  I  know 
my  business,  that  you  let  me  speak  to  you 
at  all.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  anything  that 
seemed  to  you  strange,  you  would  not  be- 
lieve it,  and  yet  it  would  only  be  in  telling 
you  strange  things  that  I  could  be  of  use 
to  you.  I  could  be  of  great  use  to  you 
— infinite  use — with  brief  saying,  if  you 
would  believe  it;  but  you  would  not, 
just  because  the  thing  that  would  be  of 
real  use  would  displease  you.  You  are 
all  wild,  for  instance,  with  admiration  of 
Gustave  Dore.  Well,  suppose  I  were  to 
tell  you,  in  the  strongest  terms  I  could  use, 
that  Gustave  Dore's  art  was  bad — bad, 
not  in  weakness, — not  in  failure, — but 
bad  with  dreadful  power — the  power  of 
the  Furies  and  the  Harpies  mingled,  en- 
raging, and  polluting;  that  so  long  as  you 
looked  at  it,  no  perception  of  pure  or 


ESSAYS 


beautiful  art  was  possible  for  you.  Sup- 
pose I  were  to  tell  you  that!  What 
would  be  the  use?  Would  you  look  at 
Gustave  Dore  less?  Rather,  more,  I 
fancy.  On  the  other  hand,  I  could  soon 
put  you  into  good  humor  with  me,  if  I 
chose.  I  know  well  enough  what  you 
like,  and  how  to  praise  it  to  your  better 
liking.  I  could  talk  to  you  about  moon- 
light, and  twilight,  and  spring  flowers, 
and  autumn  leaves,  and  the  Madonnas 
of  Raphael — how  motherly!  and  the  Sib- 
yls of  Michael  Angelo — how  majestic! 
and  the  Saints  of  Angelico — how  pious! 
and  the  Cherubs  of  Correggio — how  de- 
licious! Old  as  I  am,  I  could  play  you  a 
tune  on  the  harp  yet,  that  you  would 
dance  to.  But  neither  you  nor  I  should 
be  a  bit  the  better  or  wiser;  or,  if  we  were, 
our  increased  wisdom  could  be  of  no  prac- 
tical effect.  For,  indeed,  the  arts,  as 
regards  teachableness,  differ  from  the 
sciences  also  in  this,  that  their  power  is 
founded  not  merely  on  facts  which  can  be 
communicated,  but  on  dispositions  which 
require  to  be  created.  Art  is  neither  to 
be  achieved  by  effort  of  thinking,  nor  ex- 
plained by  accuracy  of  speaking.  It  is 
the  instinctive  and  necessary  result  of 
power,  which  can  only  be  developed 
through  the  mind  of  successive  genera- 
tions, and  which  finally  bursts  into  life 
under  social  conditions  as  slow  of  growth 
as  the  faculties  they  regulate.  Whole 
areas  of  mighty  history  are  summed,  and 
the  passions  of  dead  myriads  are  concen- 
trated, in  the  existence  of  a  noble  art; 
and  if  that  noble  art  were  among  us,  we 
should  feel  it  and  rejoice;  not  caring  in  the 
least  to  hear  lectures  on  it;  and  since  it  is 
not  among  us,  be  assured  we  have  to  go 
back  to  the  root  of  it,  or,  at  least,  to  the 
place  where  the  stock  of  it  is  yet  alive, 
and  the  branches  began  to  die. 

And  now,  may  I  have  your  pardon  for 
pointing  out,  partly  with  reference  to 
matters  which  are  at  this  tune  of  greater 
moment  than  the  arts — that  if  we  under- 
took such  recession  to  the  vital  germ  of 
national  arts  that  have  decayed,  we  should 
find  a  more  singular  arrest  of  their  power 
in  Ireland  than  in  any  other  European 


country.  For  in  the  eighth  century  Ire- 
land possessed  a  school  of  art  in  her  manu- 
scripts and  sculpture,  which,  in  many  of 
its  qualities — apparently  in  all  essential 
qualities  of  decorative  invention — was 
quite  without  rival;  seeming  as  if  it  might 
have  advanced  to  trie  highest  triumphs  in 
architecture  and  in  painting.  But  there 
was  one  fatal  flaw  in  its  nature,  by  which 
it  was  stayed,  and  stayed  with  a  conspicu- 
ousness  of  pause  to  which  there  is  no 
parallel:  so  that,  long  ago,  in  tracing  the 
progress  of  European  schools  from  in- 
fancy to  strength,  I  chose  for  the  students 
of  Kensington,  in  a  lecture  since  published, 
two  characteristic  examples  of  early  art, 
of  equal  skill;  but  in  the  one  case,  skill 
which  was  progressive — in  the  other,  skill 
which  was  at  pause.  In  the  one  case,  it 
was  work  receptive  of  correction — hungry 
for  correction;  and  in  the  other,  work 
which  inherently  rejected  Correction.  I 
chose  for  them  a  corrigible  Eve,  and  an 
incorrigible  Angel,  and  I  grieve  to  say 
that  the  incorrigible  Angel  was  also  an 
Irish  angel! 

And  the  fatal  difference  lay  wholly  in 
this.  In  both  pieces  of  art  there  was  an 
equal  falling  short  of  the  needs  of  fact; 
but  the  Lombardic  Eve  knew  she  was  in 
the  wrong,  and  the  Irish  Angel  thought 
himself  all  right.  The  eager  Lombardic 
sculptor,  though  firmly  insisting  on  his 
childish  idea,  yet  showed  in  the  irregular 
broken  touches  of  the  features,  and  the 
imperfect  struggle  for  softer  lines  in  the 
form,  a  perception  of  beauty  and  law  that 
he  could  not  render;  there  was  the  strain 
of  effort,  under  conscious  imperfection,  in 
every  line.  But  the  Irish  missal-painter 
had  drawn  his  angel  with  no  sense  of 
failure,  in  happy  complacency,  and  put 
red  dots  into  the  palms  of  each  hand,  and 
rounded  the  eyes  into  perfect  circles,  and, 
I  regret  to  say,  left  the  mouth  out  alto- 
gether, with  perfect  satisfaction  to  himself. 

May  I  without  offense  ask  you  to  con- 
sider whether  this  mode  of  arrest  in  ancient 
Irish  art  may  not  be  indicative  of  points 
of  character  which  even  yet,  in  some 
measure,  arrest  your  national  power?  I 
have  seen  much  of  Irish  character,  and 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


have  watched  it  closely,  for  I  have  also 
much  loved  it.  And  I  think  the  form  of 
failure  to  which  it  is  most  liable  is  this, — 
that  being  generous-hearted,  and  wholly 
intending  always  to  do  right,  it  does  not 
attend  to  the  external  laws  of  right, 
but  thinks  it  must  necessarily  do  right 
because  it  means  to  do  so,  and  therefore 
does  wrong  without  finding  it  out;  and 
then,  when  the  consequences  of  its  wrong 
come  upon  it,  or  upon  others  connected 
with  it,  it  cannot  conceive  that  the  wrong 
is  in  any  wise  of  its  causing  or  of  its  doing, 
but  flies  into  wrath,  and  a  strange  agony 
of  desire  for  justice,  as  feeling  itself  wholly 
innocent,  which  leads  it  farther  astray, 
until  there  is  nothing  that  it  is  not  cap- 
able of  doing  with  a  good  conscience. 

But  mind,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that, 
in  past  or  present  relations  between  Ire- 
land and  England,  you  have  been  wrong, 
and  we  right.  Far  from  that,  I  believe 
that  in  aU  great  questions  of  principle, 
and  in  all  details  of  administration  of  law, 
you  have  been  usually  right,  and  we 
wrong;  sometimes  in  misunderstanding 
you,  sometimes  in  resolute  iniquity  to  you. 
Nevertheless,  in  all  disputes  between 
states,  though  the  strongest  is  nearly  al- 
ways mainly  in  the  wrong,  the  weaker  is 
often  so  in  a  minor  degree;  and  I  think 
we  sometimes  admit  the  possibility  of  our 
being  in  error,  and  you  never  do. 

And  now,  returning  to  the  broader 
question,  what  these  arts  and  labors  of 
life  have  to  teach  us  of  its  mystery,  this 
is  the  first  of  their  lessons — that  the  more 
beautiful  the  art,  the  more  it  is  essen- 
tially the  work  of  people  who  fed  them- 
selves wrong; — who  are  striving  for  the  f  ul- 
filment  of  a  law,  and  the  grasp  of  a  love- 
liness, which  they  have  not  yet  attained, 
which  they  feel  even  farther  and  farther 
from  attaining  the  more  they  strive  for  it. 
And  yet,  in  still  deeper  sense,  it  is  the  work 
of  people  who  know  also  that  they  are 
right.  The  very  sense  of  inevitable  error 
from  their  purpose  marks  the  perfectness 
of  that  purpose,  and  the  continued  sense 
of  failure  arises  from  the  continued  open- 
ing of  the  eyes  more  clearly  to  all  the 
sacredest  laws  of  truth. 


This  is  one  lesson.  The  second  is  a 
very  plain,  and  greatly  precious  one: 
namely, — that  whenever  the  arts  and 
labors  of  life  are  fulfilled  in  this  spirit  of 
striving  against  misrule,  and  doing  what- 
ever we  have  to  do,  honorably  and  per- 
fectly, they  invariably  bring  happiness, 
as  much  as  seems  possible  to  the  nature 
of  man.  In  all  other  paths  by  which  that 
happiness  is  pursued  there  is  disappoint- 
ment, or  destruction:  for  ambition  and  for 
passion  there  is  no  rest — no  fruition; 
the  fairest  pleasures  of  youth  perish  in  a 
darkness  greater  than  their  past  light; 
and  the  loftiest  and  purest  love  too 
often  does  but  inflame  the  cloud  of  life 
with  endless  fire  of  pain.  But,  ascending 
from  lowest  to  highest,  through  every 
scale  of  human  industry,  that  industry 
worthily  followed,  gives  peace.  Ask  the 
laborer  in  the  field,  at  the  forge,  or  in  the 
mine;  ask  the  patient,  delicate-fingered 
artisan,  or  the  strong-armed,  fiery-hearted 
worker  in  bronze,  and  in  marble,  and  in 
the  colors  of  light;  and  none  of  these, 
who  are  true  workmen,  will  ever  tell  you, 
that  they  have  found  the  law  of  heaven  an 
unkind  one — that  in  the  sweat  of  their 
face  they  should  eat  bread,  till  they  return 
to  the  ground;  nor  that  they  ever  found  it 
an  unrewarded  obedience,  if,  indeed,  it 
was  rendered  faithfully  to  the  command — 
"Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do — 
do  it  with  thy  might." 

These  are  the  two  great  and  constant 
lessons  which  our  laborers  teach  us  of  the 
mystery  of  life.  But  there  is  another, 
and  a  sadder  one,  which  they  cannot  teach 
us,  which  we  must  read  on  their  tomb- 
stones. 

"Do  it  with  thy  might."  There  have 
been  myriads  upon  myriads  of  human 
creatures  who  have  obeyed  this  law — 
who  have  put  every  breath  and  nerve  of 
their  being  into  its  toil — who  have  devoted 
every  hour,  and  exhausted  every  faculty — 
who  have  bequeathed  their  unaccom- 
plished thoughts  at  death — who,  being 
dead,  have  yet  spoken,  by  majesty  of 
memory,  and  strength  of  example.  And, 
at  last,  what  has  all  this  'Might"  of 
humanity  accomplished,  in  six  thousand; 


ESSAYS 


503 


years  of  labor  and  sorrow?  What  has  it 
done?  Take  the  three  chief  occupations 
and  arts  of  men,  one  by  one,  and  count 
their  achievements.  Begin  with  the  first 
—the  lord  of  them  all — Agriculture.  Six 
thousand  years  have  passed  since  we  were 
sent  to  till  the  ground,  from  which  we 
were  taken.  How  much  of  it  is  tilled? 
How  much  of  that  which  is,  wisely  or  well? 
In  the  very  center  and  chief  garden  of 
Europe — where  the  two  forms  of  parent 
Christianity  have  had  their  fortresses — 
where  the  noble  Catholics  of  the  Forest 
Cantons,  and  the  noble  Protestants  of 
the  Vaudois  valleys,  have  maintained, 
for  dateless  ages,  their  faiths  and  liberties 
— there  the  unchecked  Alpine  rivers  yet 
run  wild  in  devastation;  and  the  marshes, 
which  a  few  hundred  men  could  redeem 
with  a  year's  labor,  still  blast  their  help- 
less inhabitants  into  fevered  idiotism. 
That  is  so,  in  the  center  of  Europe! 
While,  on  the  near  coast  of  Africa,  once 
the  Garden  of  the  Hesperides,  an  Arab 
woman,  but  a  few  sunsets  since,  ate  her 
child,  for  famine.  And,  with  all  the 
treasures  of  the  East  at  our  feet,  we,  in  our 
own  dominion,  could  not  find  a  few  grains 
of  rice,  for  a  people  that  asked  of  us  no 
more;  but  stood  by,  and  saw  five  hun- 
dred thousand  of  them  perish  of  hunger. 

Then,  after  agriculture,  the  art  of  kings, 
take  the  next  head  of  human  arts — weav- 
ing; the  art  of  queens,  honored  of  all 
noble  Heathen  women,  in  the  person  of 
their  virgin  goddess — honored  of  all  He- 
brew women,  by  the  word  of  their  wisest 
king — "She  layeth  her  hands  to  the  spin- 
dle, and  her  hands  hold  the  distaff; 
she  stretcheth  out  her  hand  to  the  poor. 
She  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  her  house- 
hold, for  all  her  household  are  clothed  with 
scarlet.  She  maketh  herself  covering  of 
tapestry;  her  clothing  is  silk  and  purple. 
She  maketh  fine  linen,  and  selleth  it,  and 
delivereth  girdles  unto  the  merchant." 
What  have  we  done  in  all  these  thousands 
of  years  with  this  bright  art  of  Greek  maid 
and  Christian  matron?  Six  thousand 
years  of  weaving,  and  have  we  learned  to 
weave?  Might  not  every  naked  wall 
have  been  purple  with  tapestry,  and  every 


feeble  breast  fenced  with  sweet  colors 
from  the  cold?  What  have  we  done? 
Our  fingers  are  too  few,  it  seems,  to  twist 
together  some  poor  covering  for  our 
bodies.  We  set  our  streams  to  work  for 
us,  and  choke  the  air  with  fire,  to  turn 
our  spinning-wheels — and, — are  we  yet 
clothed  ?  Are  not  the  streets  of  the  capitals 
of  Europe  foul  with  the  sale  of  cast  clouts 
and  rotten  rags?  Is  not  the  beauty  of 
your  sweet  children  left  in  wretchedness 
of  disgrace,  while,  with  better  honor, 
nature  clothes  the  brood  of  the  bird  in  its 
nest,  and  the  suckling  of  the  wolf  in  her 
den?  And  does  not  every  winter's  snow 
robe  what  you  have  not  robed,  and  shroud 
what  you  have  not  shrouded;  and  every 
winter's  wind  bear  up  to  heaven  its  wasted 
souls,  to  witness  against  you  hereafter, 
by  the  voice  of  their  Christ, — "I  was 
naked,  and  ye  clothed  me  not"? 

Lastly — take  the  Art  of  Building — the 
strongest — proudest — most  orderly — most 
enduring  of  the  arts  of  man;  that  of  which 
the  produce  is  in  the  surest  manner  ac- 
cumulative, and  need  not  perish,  or  be  re- 
placed; but  if  once  well  done,  will  stand 
more  strongly  than  the  unbalanced  rocks — 
more  prevalently  than  the  crumbling  hills. 
The  art  which  is  associated  with  all  civic 
pride  and  sacred  principle;  with  which 
men  record  their  power — satisfy  their 
enthusiasm — make  sure  their  defense — 
define  and  make  dear  their  habitation. 
And  in  six  thousand  years  of  building, 
what  have  we  done?  Of  the  greater  part 
of  all  that  skill  and  strength,  no  vestige 
is  left,  but  fallen  stones,  that  encumber  the 
fields  and  impede  the  streams.  But, 
from  this  waste  of  disorder,  and  of  time, 
and  of  rage,  what  is  left  to  us?  Con- 
structive and  progressive  creatures  that 
we  are,  with  ruling  brains,  and  forming 
hands,  capable  of  fellowship,  and  thirsting 
for  fame,  can  we  not  contend,  in  comfort, 
with  the  insects  of  the  forest,  or,  in  achieve- 
ment, with  the  worm  of  the  sea?  The 
white  surf  rages  in  vain  against  the  ram- 
parts built  by  poor  atoms  of  scarcely  nas- 
cent life;  but  only  ridges  of  formless  ruin 
mark  the  places  where  once  dwelt  our 
noblest  multitudes.  The  ant  and  the 


5°4 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


moth  have  cells  for  each  of  their  young, 
but  our  little  ones  lie  in  festering  heaps, 
in  homes  that  consume  them  like  graves; 
and  night  by  night,  from  the  corners  of 
our  streets,  rises  up  the  cry  of  the  home- 
less— "I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me 
not  in." 

Must  it  be  always  thus?  Is  our  life 
for  ever  to  be  without  profit — without 
possession?  Shall  the  strength  of  its 
generations  be  as  barren  as  death;  or 
cast  away  their  labor,  as  the  wild  fig-tree 
casts  her  untimely  figs?  Is  it  all  a  dream 
then — the  desire  of  the  eyes  and  the 
pride  of  life— or,  if  it  be,  might  we  not 
live  in  nobler  dream  than  this?  The 
poets  and  prophets,  the  wise  men,  and  the 
scribes,  though  they  have  told  us  nothing 
about  a  life  to  come,  have  told  us  much 
about  the  life  that  is  now.  They  have 
had — they  also, — their  dreams,  and  we 
have  laughed  at  them.  They  have 
•dreamed  of  mercy,  and  of  justice;  they 
have  dreamed  of  peace  and  good- will; 
they  have  dreamed  of  labor  undisap- 
pointed,  and  of  rest  undisturbed;  they 
have  dreamed  of  fulness  in  harvest,  and 
overflowing  in  store;  they  have  dreamed 
of  wisdom  in  council,  and  of  providence 
in  law;  of  gladness  of  parents,  and  strength 
of  children,  and  glory  of  gray  hairs.  And 
at  these  visions  of  theirs  we  have  mocked, 
and  held  them  for  idle  and  vain,  unreal 
and  unaccomplishable.  What  have  we 
accomplished  with  our  realities?  Is  this 
what  has  come  of  our  worldly  wisdom, 
tried  against  their  folly?  this,  our  mightiest 
possible,  against  their  impotent  ideal? 
or,  have  we  only  wandered  among  the 
spectra  of  a  baser  felicity,  and  chased 
phantoms  of  the  tombs,  instead  of  visions 
of  the  Almighty;  and  walked  after  the 
imaginations  of  our  evil  hearts,  instead  of 
after  the  counsels  of  Eternity,  until  our 
lives — not  in  the  likeness  of  the  cloud  of 
Tieaven,  but  of  the  smoke  of  hell — have 
become  "as  a  vapor,  that  appeareth  for 
a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away"? 

Does  it  vanish  then?  Are  you  sure  of 
that? — sure,  that  the  nothingness  of  the 
grave  will  be  a  rest  from  this  troubled 
nothingness;  and  that  the  roiling  shadow, 


which  disquiets  itself  in  vain,  cannot 
change  into  the  smoke  of  the  torment 
that  ascends  for  ever?  Will  any  answer 
that  they  are  sure  of  it,  and  that  there  is  no 
fear,  nor  hope,  nor  desire,  nor  labor, 
whither  they  go?  Be  it  so:  will  you  not, 
then,  make  as  sure  of  the  Life  that  now  is, 
as  you  are  of  the  Death  that  is  to  come? 
Your  hearts  are  wholly  in  this  world — 
will  you  not  give  them  to  it  wisely,  as 
well  as  perfectly?  And  see,  first  of  all, 
that  you  have  hearts,  and  sound  hearts, 
too,  to  give.  Because  you  have  no  heaven 
to  look  for,  is  that  any  reason  that  you 
should  remain  ignorant  of  this  wonderful 
and  infinite  earth,  which  is  firmly  and  in- 
stantly given  you  in  possession?  Al- 
though your  days  are  numbered,  and  the 
following  darkness  sure,  is  it  necessary 
that  you  should  share  the  degradation  of 
the  brute,  because  you  are  condemned  to 
its  mortality;  or  live  the  life  of  the  moth, 
and  of  the  worm,  because  you  are  to  com- 
panion them  in  the  dust?  Not  so;  we 
may  have  but  a  few  thousands  of  days  to 
spend,  perhaps  hundreds  only — perhaps 
tens;  nay,  the  longest  of  our  time  and  best, 
looked  back  on,  will  be  but  as  a  moment, 
as  the  twinkling  of  an  eye;  still  we  are 
men,  not  insects;  we  are  living  spirits,  not 
passing  clouds.  "He  maketh  the  winds 
His  messengers;  the  momentary  fire,  His 
minister";  and  shall  we  do  less  than  these? 
Let  us  do  the  work  of  men  while  we  bear 
the  form  of  them;  and,  as  we  snatch  our 
narrow  portion  of  time,  out  of  Eternity, 
snatch  also  our  narrow  inheritance  of 
passion  out  of  Immortality — even  though 
our  lives  be  as  a  vapor,  that  appeareth 
for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away. 
But  there  are  some  of  you  who  believe 
not  this — who  think  this  cloud  of  life 
has  no  such  close — that  it  is  to  float,  re- 
vealed and  illumined,  upon  the  floor  of 
heaven,  in  the  day  when  He  cometh  with 
clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  Him. 
Some  day,  you  believe,  within  these  five, 
or  ten,  or  twenty  years,  for  every  one  of  us 
the  judgment  will  be  set,  and  the  books 
opened.  If  that  be  true,  far  more  than 
that  must  be  true.  Is  there  but  one  day 
of  judgment?  Why,  for  us  every  day  is  a 


ESSAYS 


505 


day  of  judgment— every  day  is  a  Dies 
Irae,  and  writes  its  irrevocable  verdict 
in  the  flame  of  its  West.  Think  you  that 
judgment  waits  till  the  doors  of  the  grave 
are  opened?  It  waits  at  the  doors  of  your 
houses — it  waits  at  the  corners  of  your 
streets;  we  are  in  the  midst  of  judgment — 
the  insects  that  we  crush  are  our  judges — 
the  moments  that  we  fret  away  are  our 
judges— the  elements  that  feed  us,  judge, 
as  they  minister — and  the  pleasures  that 
deceive  us,  judge  as  they  indulge.  Let  us, 
for  our  lives,  do  the  work  of  Men  while  we 
bear  the  form  of  them,  if  indeed  those 
lives  are  Not  as  a  vapor,  and  do  Not 
vanish  away. 

"The  work  of  men" — and  what  is  that? 
Well,  we  may  any  of  us  know  very  quickly, 
on  the  condition  of  being  wholly  ready  to 
do  it.  But  many  of  us  are  for  the  most 
part  thinking,  not  of  what  we  are  to  do, 
but  of  what  we  are  to  get;  and  the  best  of 
us  are  sunk  into  the  sin  of  Ananias,  and  it  is 
a  mortal  one — we  want  to  keep  back  part 
of  the  price;  and  we  continually  talk 
of  taking  up  our  cross,  as  if  the  only  harm 
in  a  cross  was  the  weight  of  it — as  if  it  was 
only  a  thing  to  be  carried,  instead  of  to  be 
— crucified  upon.  "They  that  are  His 
have  crucified  the  flesh,  with  the  affec- 
tions and  lusts."  Does  that  mean,  think 
you,  that  in  time  of  national  distress,  of 
religious  trial,  of  crisis  for  every  interest 
and  hope  of  humanity — none  of  us  will 
cease  jesting,  none  cease  idling,  none  put 
themselves  to  any  wholesome  work,  none 
take  so  much  as  a  tag  of  lace  off  their  foot- 
men's coats,  to  save  the  world?  Or  does 
it  rather  mean,  that  they  are  ready  to 
leave  houses,  lands,  and  kindreds — yes, 
and  life,  if  need  be?  Life! — some  of  us 
are  ready  enough  to  throw  that  away,  joy- 
less as  we  have  made  it.  But  "station 
in  Life" — how  many  of  us  are  ready  to 
quit  that?  Is  it  not  always  the  great 
objection,  where  there  is  question  of 
finding  something  useful  to  do — "We 
cannot  leave  our  stations  in  Life?  " 

Those  of  us  who  really  cannot — that  is 
to  say,  who  can  only  maintain  themselves 
by  continuing  in  some  business  or  salaried 
office,  have  already  something  to  do; 


and  all  that  they  have  to  see  to  is,  that 
they  do  it  honestly  and  with  all  their 
might.  But  with  most  people  who  .ise 
that  apology,  "remaining  in  the  station 
of  life  to  which  Providence  has  called 
them"  means  keeping  all  the  carriages, 
and  all  the  footmen  and  large  houses  they 
can  possibly  pay  for;  and,  once  for  all,  I 
say  that  if  ever  Providence  did  put  them 
into  stations  of  that  sort — which  is  not  at 
all  a  matter  of  certainty — Providence  is 
just  now  very  distinctly  calling  them  out 
again.  Levi's  station  in  life  was  the 
receipt  of  custom;  and  Peter's,  the  shore 
of  Galilee;  and  Paul's,  the  antechambers 
of  the  High  Priest, — which  "station  in 
life"  each  had  to  leave,  with  brief  notice. 

And,  whatever  our  station  in  life  may 
be,  at  this  crisis,  those  of  us  who  mean  to 
fulfil  our  duty  ought  first  to  live  on  as 
little  as  we  can;  and,  secondly,  to  do  all 
the  wholesome  work  for  it  we  can,  and  to 
spend  all  we  can  spare  in  doing  all  the 
sure  good  we  can. 

And  sure  good  is,  first  in  feeding  people, 
then  in  dressing  people,  then  in  lodging 
people,  and  lastly  in  rightly  pleasing 
people,  with  arts,  or  sciences,  or  any 
other  subject  of  thought. 

I  say  first  in  feeding;  and,  once  for  all, 
do  not  let  yourselves  be  deceived  by  any 
of  the  common  talk  of  "indiscriminate 
charity."  The  order  to  us  is  not  to 
feed  the  deserving  hungry,  nor  the  indus- 
trious hungry,  nor  the  amiable  and  well- 
intentioned  hungry,  but  simply  to  feed 
the  hungry.  It  is  quite  true,  infallibly 
true,  that  if  any  man  will  not  work, 
neither  should  he  eat — think  of  that, 
and  every  time  you  sit  down  to  your  din- 
ner, ladies  and  gentlemen,  say  solemnly, 
before  you  ask  a  blessing,  "How  much 
work  have  I  done  to-day  for  my  dinner?  " 
But  the  proper  way  to  enforce  that  order 
on  those  below  you,  as  well  as  on  your- 
selves, is  not  to  leave  vagabonds  and 
honest  people  to  starve  together,  but  very 
distinctly  to  discern  and  seize  your  vaga- 
bond; and  shut  your  vagabond  up  out 
of  honest  people's  way,  and  very  sternly 
then  see  that,  until  he  has  worked,  he 
does  not  eat.  But  the  first  thing  is  to  be 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


sure  you  have  the  food  to  give;  and, 
therefore,  to  enforce  the  organization 
of  vast  activities  in  agriculture  and  in 
commerce,  for  the  production  of  the  whole- 
somest  food,  and  proper  storing  and  dis- 
tribution of  it,  so  that  no  famine  shall 
any  more  be  possible  among  civilized 
beings.  There  is  plenty  of  work  in  this 
business  alone,  and  at  once,  for  any  num- 
ber of  people  who  like  to  engage  in  it. 

Secondly,  dressing  people — that  is  to 
say,  urging  every  one  within  reach  of  your 
influence  to  be  always  neat  and  clean,  and 
giving  them  means  of  being  so.  In  so 
far  as  they  absolutely  refuse,  you  must 
give  up  the  effort  with  respect  to  them, 
only  taking  care  that  no  children  within 
your  sphere  of  influence  shall  any  more  be 
brought  up  with  such  habits;  and  that 
every  person  who  is  willing  to  dress  with 
propriety  shall  have  encouragement  to  do 
so.  And  the  first  absolutely  necessary 
step  towards  this  is  the  gradual  adoption 
of  a  consistent  dress  for  different  ranks  of 
persons,  so  that  their  rank  shall  be  known 
by  their  dress;  and  the  restriction  of  the 
changes  of  fashion  within  certain  limits. 
All  which  appears  for  the  present  quite 
impossible;  but  it  is  only  so  far  even  dif- 
ficult as  it  is  difficult  to  conquer  our  vanity, 
frivolity,  and  desire  to  appear  what  we  are 
not.  And  it  is  not,  nor  ever  shall  be, 
creed  of  mine,  that  these  mean  and  shal- 
low vices  are  unconquerable  by  Christian 
,  women. 

And  then,  thirdly,  lodging  people,  which 
you  may  think  should  have  been  put  first, 
but  I  put  it  third,  because  we  must  feed 
and  clothe  people  where  we  find  them,  and 
lodge  them  afterwards.  And  providing 
lodgment  for  them  means  a  great  deal  of 
vigorous  legislation,  and  cutting  down  of 
vested  interests  that  stand  in  the  way, 
and  after  that,  or  before  that,  so  far  as  we 
can  get  it,  through  sanitary  and  remedial 
action  in  the  houses  that  we  have;  and 
then  the  building  of  more,  strongly, 
beautifully,  and  in  groups  of  limited  extent, 
kept  in  proportion  to  their  streams,  and 
walled  round,  so  that  there  may  be  no 
festering  and  wretched  suburb  anywhere, 
but  clean  and  busy  street  within,  and  the 


open  country  without,  with  a  belt  of 
beautiful  garden  and  orchard  round  the 
walls,  so  that  from  any  part  of  the  city 
perfectly  fresh  air  and  grass,  and  the  sight 
of  far  horizon,  might  be  reachable  in  a  few 
minutes'  walk.  This  is  the  final  aim; 
but  in  immediate  action  every  minor  and 
possible  good  to  be  instantly  done,  when, 
and  as,  we  can;  roofs  mended  that  have 
holes  in  them — fences  patched  that  have 
gaps  in  them — walls  buttressed  that  tot- 
ter— and  floors  propped  that  shake;  clean- 
liness and  order  enforced  with  our  own 
hands  and  eyes,  till  we  are  breathless, 
every  day.  And  all  the  fine  arts  will 
healthily  follow.  I  myself  have  washed 
a  flight  of  stone  stairs  all  down,  with 
bucket  and  broom,  in  a  Savoy  inn,  where 
they  hadn't  washed  their  stairs  since 
they  first  went  up  them;  and  I  never  made 
a  better  sketch  than  that  afternoon. 

These,  then,  are  the  three  first  needs  of 
civilized  life;  and  the  law  for  every  Chris- 
tian man  and  woman  is,  that  they  shall 
be  in  direct  service  towards  one  of  these 
three  needs,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with 
their  own  special  occupation,  and  if  they 
have  no  special  business,  then  wholly  in 
one  of  these  services.  And  out  of  such 
exertion  in  plain  duty  all  other  good  will 
come;  for  in  this  direct  contention  with 
material  evil,  you  will  find  out  the  real 
nature  of  all  evil;  you  will  discern  by  the 
various  kinds  of  resistance,  what  is  really 
the  fault  and  main  antagonism  to  good; 
also  you  will  find  the  most  unexpected 
helps  and  profound  lessons  given,  and 
truths  will  come  thus  down  to  us  which  the 
speculation  of  all  our  lives  would  never 
have  raised  us  up  to.  You  will  find  nearly 
every  educational  problem  solved,  as 
soon  as  you  truly  want  to  do  something; 
everybody  will  become  of  use  in  their  own 
fittest  way,  and  will  learn  what  is  best  for 
them  to  know  in  that  use.  Competitive 
examination  will  then,  and  not  till  then, 
be  wholesome,  because  it  will  be  daily, 
and  calm,  and  in  practice;  and  on  these 
familiar  arts,  and  minute,  but  certain  and 
serviceable  knowledges,  will  be  surely 
edified  and  sustained  the  greater  arts  and 
splendid  theoretical  sciences. 


ESSAYS 


So? 


But  much  more  than  this.  On  such 
holy  and  simple  practice  will  be  founded, 
indeed,  at  last,  an  infallible  religion.  The 
greatest  of  all  the  mysteries  of  life,  and 
the  most  terrible,  is  the  corruption  of 
even  the  sincerest  religion,  which  is  not 
daily  founded  on  rational,  effective,  hum- 
ble, and  helpful  action.  Helpful  action, 
observe!  for  there  is  just  one  law,  which 
obeyed,  keeps  all  religions  pure — for- 
gotten, makes  them  ail  false.  When- 
ever in  any  religious  faith,  dark  or  bright, 
we  allow  our  minds  to  dwell  upon  the 
points  in  which  we  differ  from  other 
people,  we  are  wrong,  and  in  the  devil's 
power.  That  is  the  essence  of  the  Phar- 
isee's thankgiving — "Lord,  I  thank  Thee 
that  I  am  not  as  other  men  are."  At 
every  moment  of  our  lives  we  should  be 
trying  to  find  out,  not  in  what  we  differ 
with  other  people,  but  in  what  we  agree 
with  them;  and  the  moment  we  find  we  can 
agree  as  to  anything  that  should  be  done, 
kind  or  good  (and  who  but  fools  couldn't?), 
then  do  it;  push  at  it  together;  you  can't 
quarrel  in  a  side-by-side  push;  but  the 
moment  that  even  the  best  men  stop 
pushing,  and  begin  talking,  they  mistake 
their  pugnacity  for  piety,  and  it's  all  over. 
I  will  not  speak  of  the  crimes  which  in 
past  times  have  been  committed  in  the 
name  of  Christ,  nor  of  the  follies  which 
are  at  this  hour  held  to  be  consistent  with 
obedience  to  Him;  but  I  will  speak  of  the 
morbid  corruption  and  waste  of  vital 
power  in  religious  sentiment,  by  which 
the  pure  strength  of  that  which  should  be 
the  guiding  soul  of  every  nation,  the 
splendor  of  its  youthful  manhood,  and 
spotless  light  of  its  maidenhood,  is  averted 
or  cast  away.  You  may  see  continually 
girls  who  have  never  been  taught  to  do  a 
single  useful  thing  thoroughly;  who  cannot 
sew,  who  cannot  cook,  who  cannot  cast 
an  account,  nor  prepare  a  medicine, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  passed  either  in 
play  or  in  pride;  you  will  find  girls  like 
these,  when  they  are  earnest-hearted, 
cast  all  their  innate  passion  of  religious 
spirit,  which  was  meant  by  God  to  support 


them  _  through  the  irksomeness  of  daily 
toil,  into  grievous  and  vain  meditation 
over  the  meaning  of  the  great  Book,  of 
which  no  syllable  was  ever  yet  to  be  under- 
stood but  through  a  deed  fall  the  instinc- 
tive wisdom  and  mercy  of  their  woman- 
hood made  vain,  and  the  glory  of  their 
pure  consciences  warped  into  fruitless 
agony  concerning  questions  which  the 
laws  of  common  serviceable  life  would 
have  either  solved  for  them  in  an  instant, 
or  kept  out  of  their  way.  Give  such  a 
girl  any  true  work  that  will  make  her 
active  in  the  dawn,  and  weary  at  night, 
with  the  consciousness  that  her  fellow- 
creatures  have  indeed  been  the  better 
for  her  day,  and  the  powerless  sorrow  of 
her  enthusiasm  will  transform  itself  into  a 
majesty  of  radiant  and  beneficent  peace. 

So  with  our  youths.  We  once  taught 
them  to  make  Latin  verses,  and  called 
them  educated;  now  we  teach  them  to 
leap  and  to  row,  to  hit  a  ball  with  a  bat, 
and  call  them  educated.  Can  they  plough, 
can  they  sow,  can  they  plant  at  the  right 
time,  or  build  with  a  steady  hand?  Is  it 
the  effort  of  their  lives  to  be  chaste, 
knightly,  faithful,  holy  in  thought,  lovely 
in  word  and  deed?  Indeed  it  is,  with  some, 
nay  with  many,  and  the  strength  of  Eng- 
land is  in  them,  and  the  hope;  but  we  have 
to  turn  their  courage  from  the  toil  of  war 
to  the  toil  of  mercy;  and  their  intellect 
from  dispute  of  words  to  discernment  of 
things;  and  their  knighthood  from  the 
errantry  of  adventure  to  the  state  and 
fidelity  of  a  kingly  power.  And  then, 
indeed,  shall  abide,  for  them,  and  for  us, 
an  incorruptible  felicity,  and  an  infallible 
religion;  shall  abide  for  us  Faith,  no  more 
to  be  assailed  by  temptation,  no  more  to 
be  defended  by  wrath  and  by  fear; — shall 
abide  with  us  Hope,  no  more  to  be 
quenched  by  the  years  that  overwhelm,  or 
made  ashamed  by  the  shadows  that  be- 
tray:— shall  abide  for  us,  and  with  us, 
the  greatest  of  these;  the  abiding  will, 
the  abiding  name  of  our  Father.  For 
the  greatest  of  these  is  Charity. 

(1868) 


$o8 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  (1822-1 

Arnold  approached  the  social  problem  from  an  angle  different  from  the  sermonizing  of  Carlyle  and 
Ruskin,  finding  in  the  recognition  and  development  of  our  power  to  enjoy  beauty,  our  openness  to  ideas, 
and  our  capacity  for  social  life  and  manners,  as  well  as  in  our  moral  sense,  a  remedy  for  the  materialism 
of  our  modern  epoch.  This  ideal  of  the  all-round  development  of  the  individual  he  calls  culture,  and  the 
terms  he  chooses  to  distinguish  the  two  sides  of  our  nature — the  moral  and  the  intelligent  or  reasonable 
— he  takes  from  the  two  great  races  of  Antiquity  which  were  mainly  characterized  by  these  qualities. 
To  the  intensity  and  the  narrowness  and  the  bigotry  of  Hebraic  and  democratic  England  he  would  oppose 
the  sweetness  and  light  of  the  Hellenic  world. 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

THE  disparagers  of  culture  make  its 
motive  curiosity;  sometimes,  indeed,  they 
make  its  motive  mere  exclusiveness  and 
vanity.  The  culture  which  is  supposed 
to  plume  itself  on  a  smattering  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  is  a  culture  which  is  begotten 
by  nothing  so  intellectual  as  curiosity;  it  is 
valued  either  out  of  sheer  vanity  and  ignor- 
ance or  else  as  an  engine  of  social  and  class 
distinction,  separating  its  holder,  like  a 
badge  or  title,  from  other  people  who  have 
not  got  it.  No  serious  man  would  call 
this  culture,  or  attach  any  value  to  it,  as 
culture,  at  all.  To  find  the  real  ground 
for  the  very  different  estimate  which 
serious  people  will  set  upon  culture,  we 
must  find  some  motive  for  culture  in  the 
terms  of  which  may  lie  a  real  ambiguity; 
and  such  a  motive  the  word  curiosity  gives 
us. 

I  have  before  now  pointed  out  that  we 
English  do  not,  like  the  foreigners,  use  this 
word  in  a  good  sense  as  well  as  in  a  bad 
sense.  With  us  the  word  is  always  used 
in  a  somewhat  disapproving  sense.  A 
liberal  and  intelligent  eagerness  about 
the  things  of  the  mind  may  be  meant  by 
a  foreigner  when  he  speaks  of  curiosity, 
but  with  us  the  word  always  conveys  a 
certain  notion  of  frivolous  and  unedifying 
activity.  In  the  Quarterly  Review,  some 
little  time  ago,  was  an  estimate  of  the 
celebrated  French  critic,  M.  Sainte-Beuve, 
and  a  very  inadequate  estimate  it  in  my 
judgment  was.  And  its  inadequacy  con- 
sisted chiefly  in  this:  that  in  our  English 
way  it  left  out  of  sight  the  double  sense 
really  involved  in  the  word  curiosity, 
thinking  enough  was  said  to  stamp  M. 
Sainte-Beuve  with  blame  if  it  was  said 


that  he  was  impelled  in  his  operations  as 
a  critic  by  curiosity,  and  omitting  either 
to  perceive  that  M.  Sainte-Beuve  him- 
self, and  many  other  people  with  him, 
would  consider  that  this  was  praiseworthy 
and  not  blameworthy,  or  to  point  out 
why  it  ought  really  to  be  accounted  worthy 
of  blame  and  not  of  praise.  For  as  there 
is  a  curiosity  about  intellectual  matter* 
which  is  futile,  and  merely  a  disease,  so 
there  is  certainly  a  curiosity, — a  desire 
after  the  things  of  the  mind  simply  for 
their  own  sakes  and  for  the  pleasure  ot 
seeing  them  as  they  are, — which  is,  in  an 
intelligent  being,  natural  and  laudable. 
Nay,  and~the  very  desire  to  see  things  as 
they  are  implies  a  balance  and  regulation 
of  mind  which  is  not  often  attained  with- 
out fruitful  effort,  and  which  is  the  very 
opposite  of  the  blind  and  diseased  impulse 
of  mind  which  is  what  we  mean  to  blame 
when  we  blame  curiosity.  Montesquieu 
says:  "The  first  motive  which  ought  to 
impel  us  to  study  is  the  desire  to  aug- 
ment the  excellence  of  our  nature,  and  to 
render  an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelli- 
gent." This  is  the  true  ground  to  assign 
for  the  genuine  scientific  passion,  however 
manifested,  and  for  culture,  viewed  simply 
as  a  fruit  of  this  passion;  and  it  is  a  worthy 
ground,  even  though  we  let  the  term 
curiosity  stand  to  describe  it. 

But  there  is  of  culture  another  view, 
in  which  not  solely  the  scientific  passion, 
the  sheer  desire  to  see  things  as  they  are, 
natural  and  proper  in  an  intelligent  being, 
appears  as  die  ground  of  it.  There  is  a 
view  in  which  all  the  love  of  our  neighbor, 
the  impulses  towards  action,  help,  and 
beneficence,  the  desire  for  removing  hu- 
man error,  clearing  human  confusion,  and 
diminishing  human  misery,  the  noble 


ESSAYS 


509 


aspiration  to  leave  the  world  better  and 
happier  than  we  found  it, — motives  emi- 
nently such  as  are  called  social,— come  in 
as  part  of  the  grounds  of  culture,  and  the 
main  and  preeminent  part.  Culture  is 
then  properly  described  not  as  having  its 
origin  in  curiosity,  but  as  having  its 
origin  in  the  love  of  perfection;  it  is  a 
study  of  perfection.  It  moves  by  the  force, 
not  merely  or  primarily  of  the  scientific  pas- 
sion for  pure  knowledge,  but  also  of  the 
moral  and  social  passion  for  doing  good. 
As,  in  the  first  view  of  it,  we  took  for  its 
worthy  motto  Montesquieu's  words :  "To 
render  an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelli- 
gent!" so,  in  the  second  view  of  it,  there 
is  no  better  motto  which  it  can  have  than 
these  words  of  Bishop  Wilson:  "To 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  pre- 
vail!" 

Only,  whereas  the  passion  for  doing 
good  is  apt  to  be  overhasty  in  determining 
what  reason  and  the  will  of  God  say,  be- 
cause its  turn  is  for  acting  rather  than 
thinking  and  it  wants  to  be  beginning  to 
act;  and  whereas  it  is  apt  to  take  its  own 
conceptions,  which  proceed  from  its  own 
state  of  development  and  share  in  all  the 
imperfections  and  immaturities  of  this,  for 
a  basis  of  action;  what  distinguishes  cul- 
ture is,  that  it  is  possessed  by  the  scientific 
passion  as  well  as  by  the  passion  of  doing 
good;  that  it  demands  worthy  notions  of 
reason  and  the  will  of  God,  and  does  not 
readily  suffer  its  own  crude  conceptions  to 
substitute  themselves  for  them.  And 
knowing  that  no  action  or  institution 
can  be  salutary  and  stable  which  is  not 
based  on  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  it  is 
not  so  bent  on  acting  and  instituting,  even 
with  the  great  aim  of  diminishing  human 
error  and  misery  ever  before  its  thoughts, 
but  that  it  can  remember  that  acting  and 
instituting  are  of  little  use,  unless  we  know 
how  and  what  we  ought  to  act  and  to 
institute. 

This  culture  is  more  interesting  and 
more  far-reaching  than  that  other,  which 
is  founded  solely  on  the  scientific  passion 
for  knowing.  But  it  needs  tunes  of  faith 
and  ardor,  times  when  the  intellectual 
horizon  is  opening  and  widening  all 


round  us,  to  flourish  in.  And  is  not  the 
close  and  bounded  intellectual  horizon, 
within  which  we  have  long  lived  and 
moved  now  lifting  up,  and  are  not  new 
lights  finding  free  passage  to  shine  in  upon 
us?  For  a  long  tune  there  was  no  pas- 
sage for  them  to  make  their  way  in  upon 
us,  and  then  it  was  of  no  use  to  think  of 
adapting  the  world's  action  to  them. 
Where  was  the  hope  of  making  reason 
and  the  will  of  God  prevail  among  people 
who  had  a  routine  which  they  had  chris- 
tened reason  and  the  will  of  God,  in  which 
they  were  inextricably  bound,  and  beyond 
which  they  had  no  power  of  looking? 
But  now  the  iron  force  of  adhesion  to  the 
old  routine, — social,  political,  religious, — 
has  wonderfully  yielded;  the  iron  force 
of  exclusion  of  all  which  is  new  has  won- 
derfully yielded.  The  danger  now  is, 
not  that  people  should  obstinately  refuse 
to  allow  anything  but  their  old  routine  to 
pass  for  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  but 
either  that  they  should  allow  some  nov- 
elty or  other  to  pass  for  these  too  easily, 
or  else  that  they  should  underrate  the 
importance  of  them  altogether,  and  think 
it  enough  to  follow  action  for  its  own 
sake,  without  troubling  themselves  to 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail 
therein.  Now,  then,  is  the  moment  for 
culture  to  be  of  service,  culture  which 
believes  in  making  reason  and  the  will  of 
God  prevail,  believes  in  perfection,  is  the 
study  and  pursuit  of  perfection,  and  is  no 
longer  debarred,  by  a  rigid  invincible 
exclusion  of  whatever  is  new,  from  getting 
acceptance  for  its  ideas,  simply  because 
they  are  new. 

The  moment  this  view  of  culture  is 
seized,  the  moment  it  is  regarded  not  solely 
as  the  endeavor  to  see  things  as  they  are, 
to  draw  towards  a  knowledge  of  the  uni- 
versal order  which  seems  to  be  intended 
and  aimed  at  in  the  world,  and  which  it  is 
a  man's  happiness  to  go  along  with  or  his 
misery  to  go  counter  to, — to  learn,  in 
short,  the  will  of  God, — the  moment,  I 
say,  culture  is  considered  not  merely  as  the 
endeavor  to  see  and  learn  this,  but  as  the 
endeavor,  also,  to  make  it  prevail,  the 
moral,  social,  and  beneficent  character  of 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


culture  becomes  manifest.  The  mere 
endeavor  to  see  and  learn  the  truth  for  our 
own  personal  satisfaction  is  indeed  a  com- 
mencement for  making  it  prevail,  a  pre- 
paring the  way  for  this,  which  always 
serves  this,  and  is  wrongly,  therefore, 
stamped  with  blame  absolutely  in  itself 
and  not  only  in  its  caricature  and  degen- 
eration. But  perhaps  it  has  got  stamped 
with  blame,  and  disparaged  with  the  du- 
bious title  of  curiosity,  because  in  compar- 
ison with  this  wider  endeavor  of  such  great 
and  plain  utility  it  looks  selfish,  petty, 
and  unprofitable. 

And  religion,  the  greatest  and  most  im- 
portant of  the  efforts  by  which  the  human 
race  has  manifested  its  impulse  to  per- 
fect itself, — religion,  that  voice  of  the 
deepest  human  experience, — does  not  only 
enjoin  and  sanction  the  aim  which  is  the 
great  ami  of  culture,  the  aim  of  setting 
ourselves  to  ascertain  what  perfection  is 
and  to  make  it  prevail;  but  also,  in  deter- 
mining generally  in  what  human  perfec- 
tion consists,  religion  comes  to  a  conclu- 
sion identical  with  that  which  culture, — 
culture  seeking  the  determination  of  this 
question  through  all  the  voices  of  human 
experience  which  have  been  heard  upon  it, 
of  art,  science,  poetry,  philosophy,  history, 
as  well  as  of  religion,  in  order  to  give  a 
greater  fullness  and  certainty  to  its  solu- 
tion,— likewise  reaches.  Religion  says: 
The  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you;  and  cul- 
ture, in  like  manner,  places  human  per- 
fection in  an  internal  condition,  in  the 
growth  and  predominance  of  our  hu- 
manity proper,  as  distinguished  from  our 
animality.  It  places  it  in  the  ever-increas- 
ing efficacy  and  in  the  general  harmo- 
nious expansion  of  those  gifts  of  thought 
and  feeling,  which  make  the  peculiar 
dignity,  wealth,  and  happiness  of  human 
nature.  As  I  have  said  on  a  former 
occasion:  "It  is  in  making  endless  addi- 
tions to  itself,  in  the  endless  expansion 
of  its  powers,  in  endless  growth  in  wis- 
dom and  beauty,  that  the  spirit  of  the 
human  race  finds  its  ideal.  To  reach  this 
ideal,  culture  is  an  indispensable  aid,  and 
that  is  the  true  value  of  culture."  Not  a 
having  and  a  resting,  but  a  growing  and  a 


becoming,  is  the  character  of  perfection 
as  culture  conceives  it;  and  here,  too,  it 
coincides  with  religion. 

And  because  men  are  all  members  of  one 
great  whole,  and  the  sympathy  which  is  in 
human  nature  will  not  allow  one  member 
to  be  indifferent  to  the  rest  or  to  have  a 
perfect  welfare  Independent  of  the  rest, 
the  expansion  of  our  humanity,  to  suit  the 
idea  of  perfection  which  culture  forms, 
must  be  a  general  expansion.  Perfection, 
as  culture  conceives  it,  is  not  possible 
while  the  individual  remains  isolated. 
The  individual  is  required,  under  pain  of 
being  stunted  and  enfeebled  in  his  own 
development  if  he  disobeys,  to  carry 
others  along  with  him  in  his  march  to- 
wards perfection,  to  be  continually  doing 
all  he  can  to  enlarge  and  increase  the 
volume  of  the  human  stream  sweeping 
thitherward.  And  here,  once  more,  cul- 
ture lays  on  us  the  same  obligation  as 
religion,  which  says,  as  Bishop  Wilson 
has  admirably  put  it,  that  "to  promote 
the  kingdom  of  God  is  to  increase  and 
hasten  one's  own  happiness." 

But,  finally,  perfection, — as  culture  from 
a  thorough  disinterested  study  of  human 
nature  and  human  experience  learns  to 
conceive  it, — is  a  harmonious  expansion 
of  all  the  powers  which  make  the  beauty 
and  worth  of  human  nature,  and  is  not 
consistent  with  the  over-development  of 
any  one  power  at  the  expense  of  the  rest. 
Here  culture  goes  beyond  religion,  as 
religion  is  generally  conceived  by  us. 

If  culture,  then,  is  a  study  of  perfection, 
and  of  harmonious  perfection,  general 
perfection,  and  perfection  which  consists 
in  becoming  something  rather  than  in 
having  something,  in  an  inward  condition 
of  the  mind  and  spirit,  not  in  an  outward 
set  of  circumstances, — it  is  clear  that  cul- 
ture, instead  of  being  the  frivolous  and 
useless  thing  which  Mr.  Bright,  and  Mr. 
Frederic  Harrison,  and  many  other  Lib- 
erals are  apt  to  call  it,  has  a  very  impor- 
tant function  to  fulfil  for  mankind.  And 
this  function  is  particularly  important 
in  our  modern  world,  of  which  the  whole 
civilization  is,  to  a  much  greater  degree 
than  the  civilization  of  Greece  and  Rome, 


ESSAYS 


Si* 


mechanical  and  external,  and  tends  con- 
stantly to  become  more  so.  But  above 
all  in  our  own  country  has  culture  a 
weighty  part  to  perform,  because  here 
that  mechanical  character,  which  civil- 
ization tends  to  take  everywhere,  is 
shown  in  the  most  eminent  degree.  Indeed 
nearly  all  the  characters  of  perfection, 
as  culture  teaches  us  to  fix  them,  meet  in 
this  country  with  some  powerful  tendency 
which  thwarts  them  and  sets  them  at  de- 
fiance. The  idea  of  perfection  as  an 
inward  condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit  is 
at  variance  with  the  mechanical  and 
material  civilization  in  esteem  with  us, 
and  nowhere,  as  I  have  said,  so  much  in 
esteem  as  with  us.  The  idea  of  per- 
fection as  a  general  expansion  of  the  hu- 
man family  is  at  variance  with  our  strong 
individualism,  our  hatred  of  all  limits  to 
the  unrestrained  swing  of  the  individual's 
personality,  our  maxim  of  "every  man 
for  himself."  Above  all,  the  idea  of 
perfection  as  a  harmonious  expansion  of 
human  nature  is  at  variance  with  our 
want  of  flexibility,  with  our  inaptitude  for 
seeing  more  than  one  side  of  a  thing,  with 
our  intense  energetic  absorption  in  the 
particular  pursuit  we  happen  to  be  follow- 
ing. So  culture  has  a  rough  task  to 
achieve  in  this  country.  Its  preachers 
have,  and  are  likely  long  to  have,  a  hard 
time  of  it,  and  they  will  much  oftener  be 
regarded,  for  a  great  while  to  come,  as  ele- 
gant or  spurious  Jeremiahs  than  as  friends 
and  benefactors.  That,  however,  will 
not  prevent  their  doing  in  the  end  good 
service  if  they  persevere.  And,  mean- 
while, the  mode  of  action  they  have  to 
pursue,  and  the  sort  of  habits  they  must 
fight  against,  ought  to  be  made  quite 
clear  for  every  one  to  see,  who  may  be 
willing  to  look  at  the  matter  attentively 
and  dispassionately. 

Faith  in  machinery  is,  I  said,  our  be- 
setting danger;  often  in  machinery  most 
absurdly  disproportioned  to  the  end 
which  this  machinery,  if  it  is  to  do  any 
good  at  all,  is  to  serve;  but  always  in  ma- 
chinery, as  if  it  had  a  value  in  and  for 
itself.  What  is  freedom  but  machinery? 
what  is  population  but  machinery?  what 


is  coal  but  machinery?  what  are  railroads 
but  machinery?  what  is  wealth  but  ma- 
chinery? what  are,  even,  religious  organi- 
zations but  machinery?  Now  almost 
every  voice  in  England  is  accustomed  to 
speak  of  these  things  as  if  they  were  pre- 
cious ends  in  themselves,  and  therefore 
had  some  of  the  characters  of  perfection 
indisputably  joined  to  them.  I  have 
before  now  noticed  Mr.  Roebuck's  stock 
argument  for  proving  the  greatness  and 
happiness  of  England  as  she  is,  and  for 
quite  stopping  the  mouths  of  all  gain- 
sayers.  Mr.  Roebuck  is  never  weary  of 
reiterating  this  argument  of  his,  so  I  do 
not  know  why  I  should  be  weary  of  notic- 
ing it.  "May  not  every  man  in  England 
say  what  he  likes?" — Mr.  Roebuck  per- 
petually asks;  and  that,  he  thinks,  is 
quite  sufficient,  and  when  every  man  may 
say  what  he  likes,  our  aspirations  ought  to 
be  satisfied.  But  the  aspirations  of  cul- 
ture, which  is  the  study  of  perfection, 
are  not  satisfied,  unless  what  men  say, 
when  they  may  say  what  they  like,  is 
worth  saying, — has  good  in  it,  and  more 
good  than  bad.  In  the  same  way  the 
Times,  replying  to  some  foreign  stric- 
tures on  the  dress,  looks,  and  behavior  of 
the  English  abroad,  urges  that  the  Eng- 
lish ideal  is  that  every  one  should  be  free  to 
do  and  to  look  just  as  h°  likes.  But  cul- 
ture irdefitigably  tries,  not  to  make 
what  each  raw  person  may  like  the  rule 
by  which  he  fashions  himself ;  but  to  draw 
ever  nearer  to  a  sense  of  what  is  indeed 
beautiful,  graceful,  and  becoming,  and 
to  get  the  raw  person  to  like  that. 

And  in  the  same  way  with  respect  to 
railroads  and  coal.  Every  one  must  have 
observed  the  strange  language  current 
during  the  late  discussions  as  to  the  pos- 
sible failures  of  our  supplies  of  coal.  Our 
coal,  thousands  of  people  were  saying,  is 
the  real  basis  of  our  national  greatness; 
if  our  coal  runs  short,  there  is  an  end  of  the 
greatness  of  England.  But  what  is  great- 
ness?— culture  makes  us  ask.  Greatness 
is  a  spiritual  condition  worthy  to  excite 
love,  interest,  and  admiration;  and  the 
outward  proof  of  possessing  greatness  is 
that  we  excite  love,  interest,  and  admira- 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


tion.  If  England  were  swallowed  up  by 
the  sea  to-morrow,  which  of  the  two,  a 
hundred  years  hence,  would  most  excite 
the  love,  interest,  and  admiration  of  man- 
kind,— would  most,  therefore,  show  the 
evidences  of  having  possessed  greatness, — 
the  England  of  the  last  twenty  years,  or 
the  England  of  Elizabeth,  of  a  time  of 
splendid  spiritual  effort,  but  when  our 
coal,  and  our  industrial  operations  depend- 
ing on  coal,  were  very  little  developed? 
Well,  then,  what  an  unsound  habit  of 
mind  it  must  be  which  makes  us  talk  of 
things  like  coal  or  iron  as  constituting  the 
greatness  of  England,  and  how  salutary  a 
friend  is  culture,  bent  on  seeing  things  as 
they  are,  and  thus  dissipating  delusions 
of  this  kind  and  fixing  standards  of  per- 
fection that  are  real! 

Wealth,  again,  that  end  to  which  our 
prodigious  works  for  material  advantage 
are  directed, — the  commonest  of  common- 
places tells  us  how  men  are  always  apt  to 
regard  wealth  as  a  precious  end  in  itself; 
and  certainly  they  have  never  been  so 
apt  thus  to  regard  it  as  they  are  in  Eng- 
land at  the  present  time.  Never  did 
people  believe  anything  more  firmly  than 
nine  Englishmen  out  of  ten  at  the  present 
day  believe  that  our  greatness  and  welfare 
are  proved  by  our  being  so  very  rich. 
Now,  the  use  of  culture  is  that  it  helps 
us,  by  means  of  its  spiritual  standard  of 
perfection,  to  regard  wealth  as  but  ma- 
chinery, and  not  only  to  say,  as  a  matter 
of  words  that  we  regard  wealth  as  but 
machinery,  but  really  to  perceive  and  feel 
that  it  is  so.  If  it  were  not  for  this  purg- 
ing effect  wrought  upon  our  minds  by 
culture,  the  whole  world,  the  future  as 
well  as  the  present,  would  inevitably  be- 
long to  the  Philistines.  The  people  who 
believe  most  that  our  greatness  and  wel- 
fare are  proved  by  our  being  very  rich, 
and  who  most  give  their  lives  and  thoughts 
to  becoming  rich,  are  just  the  very  people 
whom  we  call  Philistines.  Culture  says: 
"Consider  these  people,  then,  their  way 
of  life,  their  habits,  their  manners,  the 
very  tones  of  their  voice;  look  at  them 
attentively;  observe  the  literature  they 
read,  the  things  which  give  them  pleasure, 


the  words  which  come  forth  out  of  their 
mouths,  the  thoughts  which  make  the 
furniture  of  their  minds;  would  any 
amount  of  wealth  be  worth  having  with  the 
condition  that  one  was  to  become  just 
like  these  people  by  having  it?"  And 
thus  culture  begets  a  dissatisfaction  which 
is  of  the  highest  possible  value  in  stem- 
ming the  common  tide  of  men's  thoughts 
in  a  wealthy  and  industrial  community, 
and  which  saves  the  future,  as  one  may 
hope,  from  being  vulgarized,  even  if  it 
cannot  save  the  present. 

Population,  again,  and  bodily  health 
and  vigor,  are  things  which  are  nowhere 
treated  in  such  an  unintelligent,  mislead- 
ing, exaggerated  way  as  in  England.  Both 
are  really  machinery;  yet  how  many  people 
all  around  us  do  we  see  rest  in  them  and 
fail  to  look  beyond  them!  Why,  one  has 
heard  people,  fresh  from  reading  certain 
articles  of  the  Times  on  the  Registrar- 
General's  returns  of  marriages  and  births 
in  this  country,  who  would  talk  of  our 
large  English  families  in  quite  a  solemn 
strain,  as  if  they  had  something  in  itself 
beautiful,  elevating,  and  meritorious  in 
them;  as  if  the  British  Philistine  would 
have  only  to  present  himself  before  the 
Great  Judge  with  his  twelve  children,  in 
order  to  be  received  among  the  sheep  as  a 
matter  of  right! 

But  bodily  health  and  vigor,  it  may  be 
said,  are  not  to  be  classed  with  wealth  and 
population  as  mere  machinery;  they  have 
a  more  real  and  essential  value.  True; 
but  only  as  they  are  more  intimately  con- 
nected with  a  perfect  spiritual  condition 
than  wealth  or  population  are.  The  mo- 
ment we  disjoin  them  from  the  idea  of  a 
perfect  spiritual  condition,  and  pursue 
them,  as  we  do  pursue  them,  for  their  own 
sake  and  as  ends  in  themselves,  our  wor- 
ship of  them  becomes  as  mere  worship 
of  machinery,  as  our  worship  of  wealth  or 
population,  and  as  unintelligent  and  vul- 
garizing a  worship  as  that  is.  Everyone 
with  anything  like  an  adequate  idea  of 
human  perfection  has  distinctly  marked 
this  subordination  to  higher  and  spiritual 
ends  of  the  cultivation  of  bodily  vigor 
and  activity.  "Bodily  exercise  profiteth 


ESSAYS 


513 


little;  but  godliness  is  profitable  unto  all 
things,"  says  the  author  of  the  Epistle 
to  Timothy.  And  the  utilitarian  Frank- 
lin says  just  as  explicitly: — "  Eat  and  drink 
such  an  exact  quantity  as  suits  the  consti- 
tution of  thy  body,  in  reference  to  the  ser- 
vices of  the  mind."  But  the  point  of  view 
of  culture,  keeping  the  mark  of  human  per- 
fection simply  and  broadly  in  view,  and 
not  assigning  to  this  perfection,  as  religion 
or  utilitarianism  assigns  to  it,  a  special 
and  limited  character,  this  point  of  view, 
I  say,  of  culture  is  best  given  by  these 
wotds  of  Epictetus: — "  It  isasign  of  a^uia," 
says  he, — that  is,  of  a  nature  not  finely 
tempered, — "to  give  yourselves  up  to 
things  which  relate  to  the  body;  to  make, 
for  instance,  a  great  fuss  about  exercise,  a 
great  fuss  about  eating,  a  great  fuss  about 
drinking,  a  great  fuss  about  walking,  a 
great  fuss  about  riding.  All  these  things 
ought  to  be  done  merely  by  the  way:  the 
formation  of  the  spirit  and  character  must 
be  our  real  concern."  This  is  admirable; 
and,  indeed,  the  Greek  word  eiiputa,  a 
finely  tempered  nature,  gives  exactly  the 
notion  of  perfection  as  culture  brings  us 
to  conceive  it:  a  harmonious  perfection,  a 
perfection  in  which  the  characters  of 
beauty  and  intelligence  are  both  present, 
which  unites  "the  two  noblest  of  things," 
— as  Swift,  who  of  one  of  the  two,  at  any 
rate,  had  himself  all  too  little,  most  happily 
calls  them  in  his  "Battle  of  the  Books", — 
"the  two  noblest  of  things,  sweetness  and 
light."  The  eu<puY)<;  is  the  man  who  tends 
towards  sweetness  and  light;  the  cfyu-Qs  on 
the  other  hand,  is  our  Philistine.  The  im- 
mense spiritual  significance  of  the  Greeks 
is  due  to  their  having  been  inspired  with 
this  central  and  happy  idea  of  the  essen- 
tial character  of  human  perfection;  and 
Mr.  B  right's  misconception  of  culture, 
as  a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin, 
comes  itself,  after  all,  from  this  wonder- 
ful significance  of  the  Greeks  having 
affected  the  very  machinery  of  our  educa- 
tion, and  is  in  itself  a  kind  of  homage 
to  it. 

In  thus  making  sweetness  and  light  to 
be  characters  of  perfection,  culture  is  of 
like  spirit  with  poetry,  follows  one  law 


with  poetry.  Far  more  than  on  our  free- 
dom, our  population,  and  our  industrial- 
ism, many  amongst  us  rely  upon  our  re- 
ligious organizations  to  save  us.  I  have 
called  religion  a  yet  more  important  mani- 
festation of  human  nature  than  poetry, 
because  it  has  worked  on  a  broader  scale 
for  perfection,  and  with  greater  masses  of 
men.  But  the  idea  of  beauty  and  of  a 
human  nature  perfect  on  all  its  sides, 
which  is  the  dominant  idea  of  poetry,  is  a 
true  and  invaluable  idea,  though  it  has 
not  yet  had  the  success  that  the  idea  of 
conquering  the  obvious  faults  of  our  ani- 
mality,  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  on 
the  moral  side, — which  is  the  dominant 
idea  of  religion, — has  been  enabled  to 
have;  and  it  is  destined,  adding  to  itself 
the  religious  idea  of  a  devout  energy,  to 
transform  and  govern  the  other. 

The  best  art  and  poetry  of  the  Greeks, 
in  which  religion  and  poetry  are  one,  in 
which  the  idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human 
nature  perfect  on  all  sides  adds  to  itself 
a  religious  and  devout  energy,  and  works 
in  the  strength  of  that,  is  on  this  account 
of  such  surpassing  interest 'and  instruc- 
tiveness  for  us,  though  it  was, — as,  having 
regard  to  the  human  race  in  general,  and, 
indeed,  having  regard  to  the  Greeks  them- 
selves, we  must  own, — a  premature  at- 
tempt, an  attempt  which  for  success 
needed  the  moral  and  religious  fiber  in 
humanity  to  be  more  braced  and  devel- 
oped than  it  had  yet  been.  But  Greece 
did  not  err  in  having  the  idea  of  beauty, 
harmony,  and  complete  human  perfection, 
so  present  and  paramount.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  have  this  idea  too  present  and 
paramount;  only,  the  moral  fiber  must  be 
braced  too.  And  we,  because  we  have 
braced  the  moral  fiber,  are  not  on  that 
account  in  the  right  way,  if  at  the  same 
tune  the  idea  of  beauty,  harmony,  and 
complete  human  perfection,  is  wanting 
or  misapprehended  amongst  us;  and  evi- 
dently it  is  wanting  or  misapprehended 
at  present.  And  when  we  rely  as  we  do 
on  our  religious  organizations,  which  in 
themselves  do  not  and  cannot  give  us  this 
idea,  and  think  we  have  done  enough  if 
we  make  them  spread  and  prevail,  then 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


I  say,  we  fall  into  our  common  fault  of 
overvaluing  machinery. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  for  peo- 
ple to  confound  the  inward  peace  and  sat- 
isfaction which  follows  the  subduing  of  the 
obvious  faults  of  our  animality  with  what 
I  may  call  absolute  inward  peace  and  sat- 
isfaction,— the  peace  and  satisfaction 
which  are  reached  as  we  draw  near  to 
complete  spiritual  perfection,  and  not 
merely  to  moral  perfection,  or  rather  to 
relative  moral  perfection.  No  people  in 
the  world  have  done  more  and  struggled 
more  to  attain  this  relative  moral  per- 
fection than  our  English  race  has.  For  no 
people  in  the  world  has  the  command  to 
resist  the  devil,  to  overcome  the  wicked  one, 
in  the  nearest  and  most  obvious  sense  of 
those  words,  had  such  a  pressing  force 
and  reality.  And  we  have  had  our  re- 
ward, not  only  in  the  great  worldly  pros- 
perity which  our  obedience  to  this  com- 
mand has  brought  us,  but  also,  and  far 
more,  in  great  inward  peace  and  satis- 
faction. But  to  me  few  things  are  more 
pathetic  than  to  see  people,  on  the  strength 
of  the  inward  peace  and  satisfaction  which 
their  rudimentary  efforts  towards  per- 
fection have  brought  them,  employ,  con- 
cerning their  incomplete  perfection  and 
the  religious  organizations  within  which 
they  have  found  it,  language  which 
properly  applies  only  to  complete  per- 
fection, and  is  a  far-off  echo  of  the  human 
soul's  prophecy  of  it.  Religion  itself,  I 
need  hardly  say,  supplies  them  in  abun- 
dance with  this  grand  language.  And  very 
freely  do  they  use  it;  yet  it  is  really  the 
severest  possible  criticism  of  such  an  in- 
complete perfection  as  alone  we  have  yet 
reached  through  our  religious  organiza- 
tions. 

The  impulse  of  the  English  race  towards 
moral  development  and  self-conquest  has 
nowhere  so  powerfully  manifested  itself 
as  in  Puritanism.  Nowhere  has  Puritan- 
ism found  so  adequate  an  expression  as  in 
the  religious  organization  of  the  Independ- 
ents. The  modern  Independents  have  a 
newspaper,  the  Noncomformist,  written 
with  great  sincerity  and  ability.  The 
motto,  the  standard,  the  profession  of 


faith  which  this  organ  of  theirs  carries 
aloft  is:  "The  Dissidence  of  Dissent  and 
the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  reli- 
gion." There  is  sweetness  and  light,  and 
an  ideal  of  complete  harmonious  human 
perfection!  One  need  not  go  to  culture 
and  poetry  to  find  language  to  judge  it. 
Religion,  with  its  instinct  for  perfection 
supplies  language  to  judge  it,  language, 
too,  which  is  in  our  mouths  every  day. 
"Finally,  be  of  one  mind,  united  in  feel- 
ing," says  Sc.  Peter.  There  is  an  ideal 
which  judges  the  Puritan  ideal:  "The 
Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestant- 
ism of  the  Protestant  religion!"  And 
religious  organizations  like  this  are  whaf. 
people  believe  in,  rest  in,  would  give  their 
lives  for!  Such,  I  say,  is  the  wonderful 
virtue  of  even  the  beginnings  of  perfec- 
tion, of  having  conquered  even  the  plain 
faults  of  our  animality,  that  the  religious 
organization  which  has  helped  us  to  do  it 
can  seem  to  us  something  precious,  salu- 
tary, and  to  be  propagated,  even  when  it 
wears  such  a  brand  of  imperfection  on  its 
forehead  as  this.  And  men  have  got  such 
a  habit  of  giving  to  the  language  of  re- 
ligion a  special  application,  of  making  it  a 
mere  jargon,  that  for  the  condemnation 
which  religion  itself  passes  on  the  short- 
comings of  their  religious  organizations 
they  have  no  ear;  they  are  sure  to  cheat 
themselves  and  to  explain  this  condemna- 
tion away.  They  can  only  be  reached 
by  the  criticism  which  culture,  like  poetry, 
speaking  a  language  not  to  be  sophisti- 
cated, and  resolutely  testing  these  organ- 
izations by  the  ideal  of  a  human  perfec- 
tion complete  on  all  sides,  applies  to 
them. 

But  men  of  culture  and  poetry,  it  will 
be  said,  are  again  and  again  failing,  and 
failing  conspicuously,  in  the  necessary  first 
stage  to  a  harmonious  perfection,  in  the 
subduing  of  the  great  obvious  faults  of 
our  animality,  which  it  is  the  glory  of  these 
religious  organizations  to  have  helped  us 
to  subdue.  True,  they  do  often  so  fail. 
They  have  often  been  without  the  virtues 
as  well  as  the  faults  of  the  Puritan;  it  has 
been  one  of  their  dangers  that  they  so  felt 
the  Puritan's  faults  that  they  too  much 


ESSAYS 


neglected  the  practice  of  his  virtues.  I 
will  not,  however,  exculpate  them  at 
the  Puritan's  expense.  They  have  often 
failed  in  morality,  and  morality  is  indis- 
pensable. And  they  have  been  punished 
for  their  failure,  as  the  Puritan  has  been 
rewarded  for  his  performance.  They 
have  been  punished  wherein  they  erred; 
but  their  ideal  of  beauty,  of  sweetness  and 
light,  and  a  human  nature  complete  on 
all  its  sides,  remains  the  true  ideal  of  per- 
fection still;  just  as  the  Puritan's  ideal  of 
perfection  remains  narrow  and  inadequate, 
although  for  what  he  did  well  he  has  been 
richly  rewarded.  Notwithstanding  the 
mighty  results  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers' 
voyage,  they  and  their  standard  of  per- 
fection are  rightly  judged  when  we  figure 
to  ourselves  Shakespeare  or  Virgil, — 
souls  in  whom  sweetness  and  light,  and 
all  that  in  human  nature  is  most  humane, 
were  eminent, — accompanying  them  on 
their  voyage,  and  think  what  intolerable 
company  Shakespeare  and  Virgil  would 
have  found  them!  In  the  same  way  let 
us  judge  the  religious  organizations  which 
we  see  all  around  us.  Do  not  let  us  deny 
the  good  and  the  happiness  which  they 
have  accomplished;  but  do  not  let  us  fail 
to  see  clearly  that  their  idea  of  human  per- 
fection is  narrow  and  inadequate,  and 
that  the  Dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the 
Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion 
will  never  bring  humanity  to  its  true  goal. 
As  I  said  with  regard  to  wealth:  Let  us 
look  at  the  life  of  those  who  live  in  and  for 
it, — so  I  say  with  regard  to  the  religious 
organizations.  Look  at  the  life  imaged  in 
such  a  newspaper  as  the  Nonconformist — 
a  life  of  jealousy  of  the  Establishment, 
disputes,  tea-meetings,  openings  of  chap- 
els, sermons;  and  then  think  of  it  as  an 
ideal  of  a  human  life  completing  itself  on  all 
sides,  and  aspiring  with  all  its  organs 
after  sweetness,  light,  and  perfection! 

Another  newspaper,  representing,  like 
the  Nonconformist,  one  of  the  religious 
organizations  of  this  country,  was  a  short 
time  ago  giving  an  account  of  the  crowd 
at  Epsom  on  the  Derby  day,  and  of  all  the 
vice  and  hideousness  which  was  to  be  seen 
in  that  crowd;  and  then  the  writer  turned 


suddenly  round  upon  Professor  Huxley, 
and  asked  him  how  he  proposed  to  cure  all 
this  vice  and  hideousness  without  religion. 
I  confess  I  felt  disposed  to  ask  the  asker 
this  question:  and  how  do  you  propose  to 
cure  it  with  such  a  religion  as  yours? 
How  is  the  ideal  of  a  life  so  unlovely,  so 
unattractive,  so  incomplete,  so  narrow, 
so  far  removed  from  a  true  and  satisfying 
ideal  of  human  perfection,  as  is  the  life  of 
your  religious  organization  as  you  your- 
self reflect  it,  to  conquer  and  transform 
all  this  vice  and  hideousness?  Indeed, 
the  strongest  plea  for  the  study  of  perfec- 
tion as  pursued  by  culture,  the  clearest 
proof  of  the  actual  inadequacy  of  the  idea 
of  perfection  held  by  the  religious  organi- 
zations,— expressing,  as  I  have  said,  the 
most  widespread  effort  which  the  human 
race  has  yet  made  after  perfection, — is 
to  be  found  in  the  state  of  our  life  and  so- 
ciety with  these  in  possession  of  it,  and 
having  been  in  possession  of  it  I  know  not 
how  many  hundred  years.  We  are  all  of 
us  included  in  some  religious  organization 
or  other;  we  all  call  ourselves,  in  the  sub- 
lime and  aspiring  language  of  religion 
which  I  have  before  noticed,  children  of 
God.  Children  of  God; — it  is  an  immense 
pretension! — and  how  are  we  to  justify 
it?  By  the  works  which  we  do,  and  the 
words  which  we  speak.  And  the  work 
which  we  collective  children  of  God  do, 
our  grand  center  of  Me,  our  city  which 
we  have  builded  for  us  to  dwell  in,  is 
London!  London,  with  its  unutterable 
external  hideousness,  and  with  its  inter- 
nal canker  of  publice  egestas,  privatim 
opulentia, — to  use  the  words  which  Sallust 
puts  into  Cato's  mouth  about  Rome, — 
unequalled  in  the  world!  The  word, 
again  which  we  children  of  God  speak,  the 
voice  which  most  hits  our  collective 
thought,  the  newspaper  with  the  largest 
circulation  in  England,  nay,  with  the  larg- 
est circulation  in  the  whole  world,  is  the 
Daily  Telegraph!  I  say  that  when  our 
religious  organizations, — which  I  admit 
to  express  the  most  considerable  effort 
after  perfection  that  our  race  has  yet 
made, — land  us  in  no  better  result  than 
this,  it  is  high  tune  to  examine  carefully 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


their  idea  of  perfection,  to  see  whether  it 
does  not  leave  out  of  account  sides  and 
forces  of  human  nature  which  we  might 
turn  to  great  use ;  whether  it  would  not  be 
more  operative  if  it  were  more  complete. 
And  I  say  that  the  English  reliance  on  our 
religious  organizations  and  on  their  ideas 
of  human  perfection  just  as  they  stand, 
is  like  our  reliance  on  freedom,  on  muscu- 
lar Christianity,  on  population,  on  coal, 
on  wealth, — mere  belief  in  machinery, 
and  unfruitful;  and  that  it  is  wholesomely 
counteracted  by  culture,  bent  on  seeing 
things  as  they  are,  and  on  drawing  the 
human  race  onwards  to  a  more  complete,  a 
harmonious  perfection. 

Culture,  however,  shows  its  single- 
minded  love  of  perfection,  its  desire  simply 
to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  pre- 
vail, its  freedom  from  fanaticism,  by  its 
attitude  towards  all  this  machinery,  even 
while  it  insists  that  it  is  machinery.  Fa- 
natics, seeing  the  mischief  men  do  them- 
selves by  their  blind  belief  in  some  ma- 
chinery or  other, — whether  it  is  wealth 
and  industrialism,  or  whether  it  is  the 
cultivation  of  bodily  strength  and  activity, 
or  whether  it  is  a  political  organization, — 
or  whether  it  is  a  religious  organization, — 
oppose  with  might  and  main  the  tendency 
to  this  or  that  political  and  religious  or- 
ganization, or  to  games  and  athletic  ex- 
ercises, or  to  wealth  and  industrialism, 
and  try  violently  to  stop  it.  But  the 
flexibility  which  sweetness  and  light  give, 
and  which  is  one  of  the  rewards  of  cul- 
ture pursued  in  good  faith,  enables  a 
man  to  see  that  a  tendency  may  be  neces- 
sary, and  even,  as  a  preparation  for  some- 
thing in  the  future,  salutary,  and  yet  that 
the  generations  or  individuals  who  obey 
this  tendency  are  sacrificed  to  it,  that  they 
fall  short  of  the  hope  of  perfection  by 
following  it;  and  that  its  mischiefs  are  to 
be  criticised,  lest  it  should  take  too  firm  a 
hold  and  last  after  it  has  served  its  pur- 
pose. 

Mr.  Gladstone  well  pointed  out,  in  a 
speech  at  Paris, — and  others  have  pointed 
out  the  same  thing, — how  necessary  is 
the  present  great  movement  towards 
wealth  and  industrialism,  in  order  to  lay 


broad  foundations  of  material  well-being 
for  the  society  of  the  future.  The  worst 
of  these  justifications  is,  that  they  are 
generally  addressed  to  the  very  people  en- 
gaged, body  and  soul,  in  the  movement  in 
question;  at  all  events,  that  they  are  al- 
ways seized  with  the  greatest  avidity  by 
these  people,  and  taken  by  them  as  quite 
justifying  their  life;  and  that  thus  they 
tend  to  harden  them  in  their  sins.  Now, 
culture  admits  the  necessity  of  the  move- 
ment  towards  fortune-making  and  exag- 
gerated industrialism,  readily  allows  that 
the  future  may  derive  benefit  from  it; 
but  insists,  at  the  same  time,  that  the 
passing  generations  of  industrialists, — 
forming,  for  the  most  part,  the  stout  main 
body  of  Philistinism, — are  sacrificed  to  it. 
In  the  same  way,  the  result  of  all  the  games 
and  sports  which  occupy  the  passing  gen- 
eration of  boys  and  young  men  may  be 
the  establishment  of  a  better  and  sounder 
physical  type  for  the  future  to  work  with. 
Culture  does  not  set  itself  against  the 
games  and  sports;  it  congratulates  the 
future,  and  hopes  it  will  make  a  good  use 
of  its  improved  physical  basis;  but  it 
points  out  that  our  passing  generation 
of  boys  and  young  men  is,  meantime, 
sacrificed.  Puritanism  was  perhaps  neces- 
sary to  develop  the  moral  fiber  of  the 
English  race,  Nonconformity  to  break 
the  yoke  of  ecclesiastical  domination 
over  men's  minds  and  to  prepare  the  way 
for  freedom  of  thought  in  the  distant  fu- 
ture; still,  culture  points  out  that  the 
harmonious  perfection  of  generations  of 
Puritans  and  Nonconformists  have  been, 
in  consequence,  sacrificed.  Freedom  of 
speech  may  be  necessary  for  the  society  of 
the  future,  but  the  young  lions  of  the 
Daily  Telegraph  in  the  meanwhile  are 
sacrificed.  A  voice  for  every  man  in  his 
country's  government  may  be  necessary 
for  the  society  of  the  future,  but  meanwhile 
Mr.  Beales  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh  are  sacri- 
ficed. 

Oxford,  the  Oxford  of  the  past,  has  many 
faults;  and  she  has  heavily  paid  for  them 
in  defeat,  in  isolation,  in  want  of  hold 
upon  the  modern  world.  Yet  we  in  Ox- 
ford, brought  up  amidst  the  beauty  and 


ESSAYS 


sweetness  of  that  beautiful  place,  have  not 
failed  to  seize  one  truth, — the  truth  that 
beauty  and  sweetness  are  essential  char- 
acters of  a  complete  human  perfection. 
When  I  insist  on  this,  I  am  all  in  the  faith 
and  tradition  of  Oxford.  I  say  boldly 
that  this  our  sentiment  for  beauty  and 
sweetness,  our  sentiment  against  hideous- 
ness  and  rawness,  has  been  at  the  bottom 
of  our  attachment  to  so  many  beaten 
causes,  of  our  opposition  to  so  many  tri- 
umphant movements.  And  the  senti- 
ment is  true,  and  has  never  been  wholly 
defeated,  and  has  shown  its  power  even 
in  its  defeat.  We  have  not  won  our 
political  battles,  we  have  not  carried  our 
main  points,  we  have  not  stopped  our  ad- 
versaries' advance,  we  have  not  marched 
victoriously  with  the  modern  world;  but 
we  have  told  silently  upon  the  mind  of  the 
country,  we  have  prepared  currents  of 
feeling  which  sap  our  adversaries'  posi- 
tion when  it  seems  gained,  we  have  kept 
up  our  own  communications  with  the  fu- 
ture. Look  at  the  course  of  the  great 
movement  which  shook  Oxford  to  its  cen- 
ter some  thirty  years  ago!  It  was  di- 
rected, as  any  one  who  reads  Dr.  New- 
man's "Apology"  may  see,  against  what  in 
one  word  may  be  called  "Liberalism." 
Liberalism  prevailed;  it  was  the  appointed 
force  to  do  the  work  of  the  hour;  it  was 
necessary,  it  was  inevitable  that  it  should 
prevail.  The  Oxford  movement  was 
broken,  it  failed;  our  wrecks  are  scattered 
on  every  shore: — 

Quae  regie  in  terns  nostri  non  plena  laboris? 

But  what  was  it,  this  liberalism,  as  Dr. 
Newman  saw  it,  and  as  it  really  broke  the 
Oxford  movement?  It  was  the  great 
middle-class  liberalism,  which  had  for 
the  cardinal  points  of  its  belief  the  Reform 
Bill  of  1832,  and  local  self-government,  in 
politics;  in  the  social  sphere,  free-trade, 
unrestricted  competition,  and  the  making 
of  large  industrial  fortunes;  in  the  reli- 
gious sphere,  the  Dissidence  of  Dissent 
and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant 
religion.  I  do  not  say  that  other  and  more 
intelligent  forces  than  this  were  not  op- 
posed to  the  Oxford  movement:  but  this 


was  the  force  which  really  beat  it;  this 
was  the  force  which  Dr.  Newman  felt 
himself  fighting  with;  this  was  the  force 
which  till  only  the  other  day  seeded  to 
be  the  paramount  force  in  this  country, 
and  to  be  in  possession  of  the  future;  this 
was  the  force  whose  achievements  fill 
Mr.  Lowe  with  such  inexpressible  admira- 
tion, and  whose  rule  he  was  so  horror- 
struck  to  see  threatened.  And  where  is 
this  great  force  of  Philistinism  now? 
It  is  thrust  into  the  second  rank,  it  is 
become  a  power  of  yesterday,  it  has  lost 
the  future.  A  new  power  has  suddenly 
appeared,  a  power  which  it  is  impossible 
yet  to  judge  fully,  but  which  is  certainly  a 
wholly  different  force  from  middle-class 
liberalism;  different  in  its  cardinal  points 
of  belief,  different  hi  its  tendencies  in  every 
sphere.  It  loves  and  admires  neither  the 
legislation  of  middle-class  Parliaments, 
nor  the  local  self-government  of  middle- 
class  vestries,  nor  the  unrestricted  com- 
petition of  middle-class  industrialists,  nor 
the  dissidence  of  middle-class  Dissent  and 
the  Protestantism  of  middle-class  Pro- 
testant religion.  I  am  not  now  praising 
this  new  force,  or  saying  that  its  own  ideals 
are  better;  all  I  say,  is,  that  they  are  wholly 
different.  And  who  will  estimate  how 
much  the  currents  of  feeling  created  by 
Dr.  Newman's  movements,  the  keen  de- 
sire for  beauty  and  sweetness  which  it 
nourished,  the  deep  aversion  it  mani- 
fested to  the  hardness  and  vulgarity  of 
middle-class  liberalism,  the  strong  light  it 
turned  on  the  hideous  and  grotesque 
illusions  of  middle-class  Protestantism, — 
who  will  estimate  how  much  all  these 
contributed  to  swell  the  tide  of  secret  dis- 
satisfaction which  has  mined  the  ground 
under  self-confident  liberalism  of  the  last 
thirty  years,  and  has  prepared  the  way 
for  its  sudden  collapse  and  supersession? 
It  is  in  this  manner  that  the  sentiment  of 
Oxford  for  beauty  and  sweetness  conquers, 
and  in  this  manner  long  may  it  continue 
to  conquer ! 

In  this  manner  it  works  to  the  same  end 
as  culture,  and  there  is  plenty  of  work  for 
it  yet  to  do.  I  have  said  that  the  new 
and  more  democratic  force  which  is  now 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


superseding  our  old  middle-class  liber- 
alism cannot  yet  be  rightly  judged.  It 
has  its  main  tendencies  still  to  form.  We 
hear  promises  of  its  giving  us  adminis- 
trative reform,  law  reform,  reform  of  educa- 
tion, and  I  know  not  what;  but  those 
promises  come  rather  from  its  advocates, 
wishing  to  make  a  good  plea  for  it  and  to 
justify  it  for  superseding  middle-class 
liberalism,  than  from  clear  tendencies 
which  it  has  itself  yet  developed.  But 
meanwhile  it  has  plenty  of  well-inten- 
tioned friends  against  whom  culture  may 
with  advantage  continue  to  uphold 
steadily  its  ideal  of  human  perfection; 
that  this  is  an  inward  spiritual  activity, 
having  for  its  characters  increased  sweet- 
ness, increased  light,  increased  life,  in- 
creased sympathy.  Mr.  Bright,  who  has 
a  foot  in  both  worlds,  the  world  of  middle- 
class  liberalism  and  the  world  of  democ- 
racy, but  who  brings  most  of  his  ideas 
from  the  world  of  middle-class  liberalism 
in  which  he  was  bred,  always  inclines  to 
inculcate  that  faith  hi  machinery  to  which, 
as  we  have  seen,  Englishmen  are  so  prone, 
and  which  has  been  the  bane  of  middle- 
class  liberalism.  He  complains  with  a 
sorrowful  indignation  of  people  who  "ap- 
pear to  have  no  proper  estimate  of  the 
value  of  the  franchise";  he  leads  his  dis- 
ciples to  believe, — what  the  Englishman 
is  always  too  ready  to  believe, — that 
the  having  a  vote,  like  the  having  a 
large  family,  or  a  large  business,  or  large 
muscles,  has  in  itself  some  edifying  and 
perfecting  effect  upon  human  nature.  Or 
else  he  cries  out  to  the  democracy, — 
"the  men,"  as  he  calls  them,  "upon  whose 
shoulders  the  greatness  of  England  rests," 
— he  cries  out  to  them:  "See  what  you 
have  done!  I  look  over  this  country 
and  see  the  cities  you  have  built,  the  rail- 
roads you  have  made,  the  manufactures 
you  have  produced,  the  cargoes  which 
freight  the  ships  of  the  greatest  mer- 
cantile navy  the  world  has  ever  seen!  I 
see  that  you  have  converted  by  your 
labors  what  was  once  a  wilderness, 
these  islands,  into  a  fruitful  garden;  I 
know  that  you  have  created  this  wealth, 
and  are  a  nation  whose  name  is  a  word  of 


power  throughout  all  the  world."  Why, 
this  is  just  the  very  style  of  laudation  with 
which  Mr.  Roebuck  or  Mr.  Lowe  de- 
bauches the  minds  of  the  middle  classes, 
and  makes  such  Philistines  of  them.  It  is 
the  same  fashion  of  teaching  a  man  to 
value  himself  not  on  what  he  is,  not  on  his 
progress  in  sweetness  and  light,  but  on 
the  number  of  the  railroads  he  has  con- 
structed, or  the  bigness  of  the  tabernacle 
he  has  built.  Only  the  middle  classes 
are  told  they  have  done  it  all  with  their 
energy,  self-reliance,  and  capital,  and  the 
democracy  are  told  they  have  done  it  all 
with  their  hands  and  sinews.  But  teach- 
ing the  democracy  to  put  its  trust  in 
achievements  of  this  kind  is  merely  train- 
ing them  to  be  Philistines  to  take  the  place 
of  the  Philistines  whom  they  are  super- 
seding; and  they  too,  like  the  middle  class, 
will  be  encouraged  to  sit  down  at  the  ban- 
quet of  the  future  without  having  on 
a  wedding  garment,  and  nothing  excellent 
can  then  come  from  them.  Those  who 
know  their  besetting  faults,  those  who 
have  watched  them  and  listened  to  them, 
or  those  who  will  read  the  instructive  ac- 
count recently  given  of  them  by  one  of 
themselves,  the  "Journeyman  Engineer," 
will  agree  that  the  idea  which  culture  sets 
before  us  of  perfection, — an  increased 
spiritual  activity,  having  for  its  characters 
increased  sweetness,  increased  light,  in- 
creased life,  increased  sympathy, — is  an 
idea  which  the  new  democracy  needs 
far  more  than  the  idea  of  the  blessedness 
of  the  franchise,  or  the  wonderfulness  of 
its  own  industrial  performances. 

Other  well-meaning  friends  of  this  new 
power  are  for  leading  it,  not  in  the  old  ruts 
of  middle-class  Philistinism,  but  in  ways 
which  are  naturally  alluring  to  the  feet  of 
democracy,  though  in  this  country  they 
are  novel  and  untried  ways.  I  may  call 
them  the  ways  of  Jacobinism.  Violent 
indignation  with  the  past,  abstract  sys- 
tems of  renovation  applied  wholesale,  a 
new  doctrine  drawn  up  in  black  and 
white  for  elaborating  down  to  the  very 
smallest  details  a  rational  society  for  the 
future, — these  are  the  ways  of  Jacobinism. 
Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  and  other  disciples 


ESSAYS 


of  Comte, — one  of  them,  Mr.  Congreve, 
is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  I  am  glad  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  publicly  express- 
ing my  respect  for  his  talents  and  char- 
acter,— are  among  the  friends  of  demo- 
cracy who  are  for  leading  it  in  paths  of 
this  kind.  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  is  very 
hostile  to  culture,  and  from  a  natural 
enough  motive;  for  culture  is  the  eternal 
opponent  of  the  two  things,  which  are  the 
signal  marks  of  Jacobinism, — its  fierce- 
ness, and  its  addiction  to  an  abstract 
system.  Culture  is  always  assigning  to 
system-makers  and  systems  a  smaller 
share  in  the  bent  of  human  destiny  than 
their  friends  like.  A  current  in  people's 
minds  sets  towards  new  ideas;  people  are 
dissatisfied  with  their  old  narrow  stock  of 
Philistine  ideas,  Anglo-Saxon  ideas,  or 
any  other;  and  some  man,  some  Bentham 
or  Comte,  who  has  the  real  merit  of  having 
early  and  strongly  felt  and  helped  the  new 
current,  but  who  brings  plenty  of  narrow- 
ness and  mistakes  of  his  own  into  his  feel- 
ing and  help  of  it,  is  credited  with  being 
the  author  of  the  whole  current,  the  fit 
person  to  be  entrusted  with  its  regula- 
tion and  to  guide  the  human  race. 

The  excellent  German  historian  of  the 
mythology  of  Rome,  Preller,  relating  the 
introduction  at  Rome  under  the  Tarquins 
of  the  worship  of  Apollo,  the  god  of  light, 
healing,  and  reconciliation,  will  have  us 
observe  that  it  was  not  so  much  the  Tar- 
quins  who  brought  to  Rome  the  new  wor- 
ship of  Apollo,  as  a  current  in  the  mind 
of  the  Roman  people  which  set  powerfully 
at  that  time  towards  a  new  worship  of  this 
kind,  and  away  from  the  old  run  of  Latin 
and  Sabine  religious  ideas.  In  a  similar 
way,  culture  directs  our  attention  to  the 
natural  current  there  is  in  human  affairs, 
and  to  its  continual  working,  and  will  not 
let  us  rivet  our  faith  upon  any  one  man 
and  his  doings.  It  makes  us  see  not  only 
his  good  side,  but  also  how  much  in  him 
was  of  necessity  limited  and  transient; 
nay,  it  even  feels  a  pleasure,  a  sense  of 
an  increased  freedom  and  of  an  ampler 
future,  in  so  doing. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  mind  to  which  I  feel  the  great- 


est obligations,  the  mind  of  a  man  who 
was  the  very  incarnation  of  sanity  and' 
clear  sense,  a  man  the  most  considerable, 
it  seems  to  me,  whom  America  has  yet 
produced,— Benjamin  Franklin,— I  remem- 
ber the  relief  with  which,  after  long  feeling 
the  sway  of  Franklin's  imperturbable 
common-sense,  I  came  upon  a  project 
of  his  for  a  new  version  of  the  Book  of 
Job,  to  replace  the  old  version,  the  style 
of  which,  says  Franklin,  has  become 
obsolete,  and  thence  less  agreeable.  "I 
give,"  he  continues,  "a  few  verses,  which 
may  serve  as  a  sample  of  the  kind  of  ver- 
sion I  would  recommend."  We  all  recol- 
lect the  famous  verse  in  our  translation: 
"Then  Satan  answered  the  Lord  and  said: 
'Doth  Job  fear  God  for  nought? ' "  Frank- 
lin makes  this:  "Does  your  Majesty 
imagine  that  Job's  good  conduct  is  the 
effect  of  mere  personal  attachment  and 
affection?"  I  well  remember  how,  when 
first  I  read  that,  I  drew  a  deep  breath  of 
relief,  and  said  to  myself:  "After  all, 
there  is  a  stretch  of  humanity  beyond 
Franklin's  victorious  good  sense!"  So, 
after  hearing  Bentham  cried  loudly  up  as 
the  renovator  of  modern  society,  and 
Bentham's  mind  and  ideas  proposed  as 
the  rulers  of  our  future,  I  open  the  "Deon- 
tology." There  I  read:  "While  Xeno- 
phon  was  writing  his  history  and  Euclid 
teaching  geometry,  Socrates  and  Plato 
were  talking  nonsense  under  pretence  of 
talking  wisdom  and  morality.  This  mo- 
rality of  theirs  consisted  in  words;  this  wis- 
dom of  theirs  was  the  denial  of  matters 
known  to  every  man's  experience."  From 
the  moment  of  reading  that,  I  am  de- 
livered from  the  bondage  of  Bentham! 
the  fanaticism  of  his  adherents  can  touch 
me  no  longer.  I  feel  the  inadequacy  of 
his  mind  and  ideas  for  supplying  the  rule 
of  human  society,  for  perfection. 

Culture  tends  always  thus  to  deal  with 
the  men  of  a  system,  of  disciples,  of  a 
school;  with  men  like  Comte,  or  the  late 
Mr.  Buckle,  or  Mr.  Mill.  However  much 
it  may  find  to  admire  in  these  personages, 
or  in  some  of  them,  it  nevertheless  remem- 
bers the  text :  "Be  not  ye  called  Rabbi ! " 
and  it  soon  passes  on  from  any  Rabbi. 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


But  Jacobinism  loves  a  Rabbi;  it  does  not 
want  to  pass  on  from  its  Rabbi  in  pursuit 
of  a  future  and  still  unreached  perfection; 
it  wants  its  Rabbi  and  his  ideas  to  stand 
for  perfection,  that  they  may  with  the 
more  authority  recast  the  world;  and  for 
Jacobinism,  therefore,  culture, — eternally 
passing  onwards  and  seeking, — is  an  im- 
pertinence and  an  offense.  But  culture, 
just  because  it  resists  this  tendency  of 
Jacobinism  to  impose  on  us  a  man  with 
limitations  and  errors  of  his  own  along 
with  the  true  ideas  of  which  he  is  the  organ, 
really  does  the  world  and  Jacobinism  itself 
a  service. 

So,  too,  Jacobinism,  in  its  fierce  hatred 
of  the  past  and  of  those  whom  it  makes 
liable  for  the  sins  of  the  past,  cannot  away 
with  the  inexhaustible  indulgence  proper 
to  culture,  the  consideration  of  circum- 
stances, the  severe  judgment  of  actions 
joined  to  the  merciful  judgment  of  per- 
sons. "The  man  of  culture  is  in  politics," 
cries  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  "one  of  the 
poorest  mortals  alive!"  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  wants  to  be  doing  business,  and 
he  complains  that  the  man  of  culture  stops 
him  with  a  "turn  for  small  fault-finding, 
love  of  selfish  ease,  and  indecision  in 
action."  Of  what  use  is  culture,  he  asks, 
except  for  "a  critic  of  hew  books  or  a  pro- 
fessor of  belles-lettres?"  Why,  it  is  of  use 
because,  in  presence  of  the  fierce  exaspera- 
tion which  breathes,  or  rather,  I  may  say, 
hisses  through  the  whole  production  in 
which  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  asks  that 
question,  it  reminds  us  that  the  perfection 
of  human  nature  is  sweetness  and  light. 
It  is  of  use  because,  like  religion, — that 
other  effort  after  perfection, — it  testifies 
that,  where  bitter  envying  and  strife  are, 
there  is  confusion  and  every  evil  work. 

The  pursuit  of  perfection,  then,  is  the 
pursuit  of  sweetness  and  light.  He  who 
works  for  sweetness  and  light,  works  to 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail. 
He  who  works  for  machinery,  he  who 
works  for  hatred,  works  only  for  confusion. 
Culture  looks  beyond  machinery,  culture 
hates  hatred;  culture  has  one  great  pas- 
sion, the  passion  for  sweetness  and  light. 
It  has  one  even  yet  greater! — the  passion 


for  making  them  prevail.  It  is  not  satis- 
fied till  we  all  come  to  a  perfect  man;  it 
knows  that  the  sweetness  and  light  of  the 
few  must  be  imperfect  until  the  raw  and 
unkindled  masses  of  humanity  are  touched 
with  sweetness  and  light.  If  I  have  not 
shrunk  from  saying  that  we  must  work  for 
sweetness  and  light,  so  neither  have  I 
shrunk  from  saying  that  we  must  have 
a  broad  basis,  must  have  sweetness  and 
light  for  as  many  as  possible.  Again  and 
again  I  have  insisted  how  those  are  the 
happy  moments  of  humanity,  how  those 
are  the  marking  epochs  of  a  people's  life, 
how  those  are  the  flowering  times  for  liter- 
ature and  art  and  all  the  creative  power  of 
genius,  when  there  is  a  national  glow 
of  life  and  thought,  when  the  whole  of 
society  is  in  the  fullest  measure  permeated 
by  thought,  sensible  to  beauty,  intelli- 
gent and  alive.  Only  it  must  be  real 
thought  and  real  beauty;  real  sweetness 
and  real  light.  Plenty  of  people  will  try 
to  give  the  masses,  as  they  call  them,  an 
intellectual  food  prepared  and  adapted 
in  the  way  they  think  proper  for  the 
actual  condition  of  the  masses.  The  ordi- 
nary popular  literature  is  an  example  of 
this  way  of  working  on  the  masses. 
Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  indoctrinate 
the  masses  with  the  set  of  ideas  and  judg- 
ments constituting  the  creed  of  their  own 
profession  or  party.  Our  religious  and 
political  organizations  give  an  example 
of  this  way  of  working  on  the  masses.  I 
condemn  neither  way;  but  culture  works 
differently.  It  does  not  try  to  teach  down 
to  the  level  of  inferior  classes;  it  does  not 
try  to  win  them  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its 
own,  with  ready-made  judgments  and 
watchwords.  It  seeks  to  do  away  with 
classes;  to  make  the  best  that  has  been 
thought  and  known  hi  the  world  current 
everywhere;  to  make  all  men  live  in  an 
atmosphere  of  sweetness  and  light,  where 
they  may  use  ideas,  as  it  uses  them  itself, 
freely, — nourished,  and  not  bound  by  them. 
This  is  the  social  idea;  and  the  men  of 
culture  are  the  true  apostles  of  equality. 
The  great  men  of  culture  are  those  who 
have  had  a  passion  for  diffusing,  for  mak- 
ing prevail,  for  carrying  from  one  end  of 


ESSAYS 


521 


society  to  the  other,  the  best  knowledge, 
the  best  ideas  of  their  time;  who  have 
labored  to  divest  knowledge  of  all  that 
was  harsh,  uncouth,  difficult,  abstract, 
professional,  exclusive;  to  humanize  it, 
to  make  it  efficient  outside  the  clique  of 
the  cultivated  and  learned,  yet  still  re- 
maining the  best  knowledge  and  thought 
of  the  time,  and  a  true  source,  therefore, 
of  sweetness  and  light.  Such  a  man  was 
Abelard  in  the  Middle  Ages,  in  spite  of 
all  his  imperfections;  and  thence  the  bound- 
less emotion  and  enthusiasm  which  Abe- 
lard  excited.  Such  were  Lessing  and 
Herder  in  Germany,  at  the  end  of  the  last 
century;  and  their  services  to  Germany 
were  in  this  way  inestimably  precious. 
Generations  will  pass,  and  literary  monu- 
ments will  accumulate,  and  works  far  xcoie 
periect  than  the  works  of  \£ssing  and 
Herder  will  be  produced  in  Germany;  and 
yet  the  names  of  these  two  men  will  fill 
a  German  with  a  reverence  and  enthu- 
siasm such  as  the  names  of  the  most  gifted 
masters  will  hardly  awaken.  And  why? 
Because  they  humanized  knowledge;  be- 
cause they  broadened  the  basis  of  life 
and  intelligence;  because  they  worked 
powerfully  to  diffuse  sweetness  and  light, 
to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail. 
With  Saint  Augustine  they  said:  "Let 
us  not  leave  thee  alone  to  make  in  the 
secret  of  thy  knowledge,  as  thou  didst 
before  the  creation  of  the  firmament,  the 
division  of  light  from  darkness;  let  the 
children  of  thy  spirit,  placed  in  their  firma- 
ment, make  their  light  shine  upon  the 
earth,  mark  the  division  of  night  and  day, 
and  announce  the  revolution  of  the  times; 
for  the  old  order  is  passed,  and  the  new 
arises;  the  night  is  spent,  the  day  is  come 
forth;  and  thou  shalt  crown  the  year  with 
thy  blessing,  when  thou  shalt  send  forth 
laborers  into  thy  harvest  sown  by  other 
hands  than  theirs;  when  thou  shalt  send 
forth  new  laborers  to  new  seed-times, 
whereof  the  harvest  shall  be  not  yet." 

HEBRAISM  AND  HELLENISM 

THIS  fundamental  ground  is  our  pref- 
erence of  doing  to  thinking.    Now  this 


preference  is  a  main  element  in  our  nature, 
and  as  we  study  it  we  find  ourselves 
opening  up  a  number  of  large  questions 
on  every  side. 

Let  me  go  back  for  a  moment  to  Bishop 
Wilson,  who  says:  "First,  never  go 
against  the  best  light  you  have;  secondly, 
take  care  that  your  light  be  not  darkness." 
We  show,  as  a  nation,  laudable  energy  and 
persistence  in  walking  according  to  the 
best  light  we  have,  but  are  not  quite  care- 
ful enough,  perhaps,  to  see  that  our  light 
be  not  darkness.  This  is  only  another 
version  of  the  old  story  that  energy  is 
our  strong  point  and  favorable  character- 
istic, rather  than  intelligence.  But  we 
may  give  to  this  idea  a  more  general 
form  still,  in  which  it  will  have  a  yet 
larger  range  of  application.  We  may 
regard  this  energy  driving  at  practice, 
this  paramount  sense  of  the  obligation  of 
duty,  self-control,  and  work,  this  earnest- 
ness in  going  manfully  with  the  best  light 
we  have,  as  one  force.  And  we  may 
regard  the  intelligence  driving  at  those 
ideas  which  are,  after  all,  the  basis  of  right 
practice,  the  ardent  sense  for  all  the  new 
and  changing  combinations  of  them  which 
man's  development  brings  with  it,  the 
indomitable  impulse  to  know  and  adjust 
them  perfectly,  as  another  force.  And 
these  two  forces  we  may  regard  as  in 
some  sense  rivals, — rivals  not  by  the  ne- 
cessity of  then*  own  nature,  but  as  exhib- 
ited in  man  and  his  history, — and  rivals 
dividing  the  empire  of  the  world  between 
them.  And  to  give  these  forces  names 
from  the  two  races  of  men  who  have  sup- 
plied the  most  signal  and  splendid  manifes- 
tations of  them,  we  may  call  them  re- 
spectively the  forces  of  Hebraism  and 
Hellenism.  Hebraism  and  Hellenism, — 
between  these  two  points  of  influence 
moves  our  world.  At  one  time  it  feels 
more  powerfully  the  attraction  of  one  of 
them,  at  another  time  of  the  other;  and  it 
ought  to  be,  though  it  never  is,  evenly 
and  happily  balanced  between  them. 

The  final  aim  of  both  Hellenism  and 
Hebraism,  as  of  all  great  spiritual  dis- 
ciplines, is  no  doubt  the  same:  man's 
perfection  or  salvation.  The  very  Ian- 


522 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


guage  which  they  both  of  them  use  in 
schooling  us  to  reach  this  aim  is  often 
identical.  Even  when  their  language 
indicates  by  variation, — sometimes  a  broad 
variation,  often  a  but  slight  and  subtle 
variation, — the  different  courses  of  thought 
which  are  uppermost  in  each  discipline, 
even  then  the  unity  of  the  final  end  and 
aim  is  still  apparent.  To  employ  the 
actual  words  of  that  discipline  with  which 
we  ourselves  are  all  of  us  most  familiar, 
and  the  words  of  which,  therefore,  come 
most  home  to  us,  that  final  end  and  aim  is 
"that  we  might  be  partakers  of  the  divine 
nature."  These  are  the  words  of  a  He- 
brew apostle,  but  of  Hellenism  and  He- 
braism alike  this  is,  I  say,  the  aim.  When 
the  two  are  confronted,  as  they  very  often 
are  confronted,  it  is  nearly  always  with 
what  I  may  call  a  rhetorical  purpose;  the 
speaker's  whole  design  is  to  exalt  and 
enthrone  one  of  the  two,  and  he  uses  the 
other  only  as  a  foil  and  to  enable  him  the 
better  to  give  effect  to  his  purpose.  Ob- 
viously, with  us,  it  is  usually  Hellenism 
which  is  thus  reduced  to  minister  to  the 
triumph  of  Hebraism.  There  is  a  sermon 
on  Greece  and  the  Greek  spirit  by  a  man 
never  to  be  mentioned  without  interest 
and  respect,  Frederick  Robertson,  in 
which  this  rhetorical  use  of  Greece  and 
the  Greek  spirit,  and  the  inadequate  ex- 
hibition of  them  necessarily  consequent 
upon  this,  is  almost  ludicrous,,  and  would 
be  censurable  if  it  were  not  to  be  explained 
by  the  exigencies  of  a  sermon.  On  the 
other  hand,  Heinrich  Heine,  and  other 
writers  of  his  sort,  give  us  the  spectacle 
of  the  tables  completely  turned,  and  of 
Hebraism  brought  in  just  as  a  foil  and 
contrast  to  Hellenism,  and  to  make  the 
superiority  of  Hellenism  more  manifest. 
In  both  these  cases  there  is  injustice 
and  misrepresentation.  The  aim  and 
end  of  both  Hebraism  and  Hellenism,  is, 
as  I  have  said,  one  and  the  same,  and  this 
aim  and  end  is  august  and  admirable. 

Still,  they  pursue  this  aim  by  very  dif- 
ferent courses.  The  uppermost  idea  with 
Hellenism  is  to  see  things  as  they  really 
are;  the  uppermost  idea  with  Hebraism 
is  conduct  and  obedience.  Nothing  can 


do  away  with  this  ineffaceable  difference. 
The  Greek  quarrel  with  the  body  and  its 
desires  is,  that  they  hinder  right  thinking; 
the  Hebrew  quarrel  with  them  is,  that  they 
hinder  right  acting.  "He  that  keepeth 
the  law,  happy  is  he;"  "Blessed  is  the 
man  that  feareth  the  Eternal,  that  delight- 
eth  greatly  in  his  commandments;" — 
that  is  the  Hebrew  notion  of  felicity;  and, 
pursued  with  passion  and  tenacity,  this 
notion  would  not  let  the  Hebrew  rest  till, 
as  is  well  known,  he  had  at  last  got  out  of 
the  law  a  network  of  prescriptions  to 
enwrap  his  whole  life,  to  govern  every 
moment  of  it,  every  impulse,  every  action. 
The  Greek  notion  of  felicity,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  perfectly  conveyed  in  these  words 
of  a  great  French  moralist:  C'est  le  bon- 
heur  des  hommes, — when?  when  they 
abhor  that  which  is  evil? — no;  when  they 
exercise  themselves  in  the  law  of  the  Lord 
day  and  night? — no;  when  they  die  daily? 
— no;  when  they  walk  about  the  New 
Jerusalem  with  palms  in  their  hands? — 
no;  but  when  they  think  aright,  when 
their  thought  hits:  quand  Us  pensent 
juste.  At  the  bottom  of  both  the  Greek 
and  the  Hebrew  notion  is  the  desire, 
native  in  man,  for  reason  and  the  will  of 
God,  the  feeling  after  the  universal  order, 
— in  a  word,  the  love  of  God.  But  while 
Hebraism  seizes  upon  certain  plain,  cap- 
ital intimations  of  the  universal  order, 
and  rivets  itself,  one  may  say,  with  un- 
equalled grandeur  of  earnestness  and  in- 
tensity on  the  study  and  observance  of 
them,  the  bent  of  Hellenism  is  to  follow, 
with  flexible  activity,  the  whole  play 
of  the  universal  order,  to  be  apprehen- 
sive of  missing  any  part  of  it,  of  sacrificing 
one  part  to  another,  to  slip  away  from 
resting  in  this  or  that  intimation  of  it, 
however  capital.  An  unclouded  clearness 
of  mind,  an  unimpeded  play  of  thought, 
is  what  this  bent  drives  at.  The  govern- 
ing idea  of  Hellenism  is  spontaneity  of 
consciousness;  that  of  Hebraism,  strictness 
of  conscience. 

Christianity  changed  nothing  in  this 
essential  bent  of  Hebraism  to  set  doing 
above  knowing.  Self-conquest,  self-devo- 
tion, the  following  not  our  own  individual 


ESSAYS 


523 


will,  but  the  will  of  God,  obedience,  is  the 
fundamental  idea  of  this  form,  also,  of  the 
discipline  to  which  we  have  attached  the 
general  name  of  Hebraism.  Only,  as  the 
old  law  and  the  network  of  prescriptions 
with  which  it  enveloped  human  life  were 
evidently  a  motive-power  not  driving  and 
searching  enough  to  produce  the  result 
aimed  at, — patient  continuance  in  well- 
doing, self-conquest, — Christianity  sub- 
stituted for  them  boundless  devotion  to 
that  inspiring  and  affecting  pattern  of 
self -conquest  offered  by  Jesus  Christ; 
and  by  the  new  motive-power,  of  which  the 
essence  was  this,  though  the  love  and 
admiration  of  Christian  churches  have 
for  centuries  been  employed  in  varying, 
amplifying,  and  adorning  the  plain  de- 
scription of  it,  Christianity,  as  St.  Paul 
truly  says,  "establishes  the  law,"  and  in 
the  strength  of  the  ampler  power  which 
she  has  thus  supplied  to  fulfill  it,  has  ac- 
complished the  miracles,  which  we  all 
see,  of  her  history. 

So  long  as  we  do  not  forget  that  both 
Hellenism  and  Hebraism  are  profound  and 
admirable  manifestations  of  man's  life, 
tendencies,  and  powers,  and  that  both  of 
them  aim  at  a  like  final  result,  we  can 
hardly  insist  too  strongly  on  the  divergence 
of  line  and  of  operation  with  which  they 
proceed.  It  is  a  divergence  so  great 
that  it  most  truly,  as  the  prophet  Zech- 
ariah  says,  "has  raised  up  thy  sons,  O 
Zion,  against  thy  sons,  0  Greece!"  The 
difference  whether  it  is  by  doing  or  by 
knowing  that  we  set  most  store,  and  the 
practical  consequences  which  follow  from 
this  difference,  leave  their  mark  on  all  the 
history  of  our  race  and  of  its  development. 
Language  may  be  abundantly  quoted 
from  both  Hellenism  and  Hebraism  to 
make  it  seem  that  one  follows  the  same 
current  as  the  other  towards  the  same  goal. 
They  are,  truly,  borne  towards  the  same 
goal;  but  the  currents  which  bear  them 
are  infinitely  different.  It  is  true,  Solo- 
mon will  praise  knowing:  "Understand- 
ing is  a  well-spring  of  life  unto  him 
that  hath  it."  And  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment, again,  Jesus  Christ  is  a  "light," 
and  "truth  makes  us  free."  It  is  true, 


Aristotle  will  undervalue  knowing:  "In 
what  concerns  virtue,"  says  he,  "three 
things  are  necessary — knowledge,  delib- 
erate will,  and  perseverance;  but,  whereas 
the  two  last  are  all-important,  the  first 
is  a  matter  of  little  importance."  It  is 
true  that  with  the  same  impatience  with 
which  St.  James  enjoins  a  man  to  be  not 
a  forgetful  hearer,  but  a  doer  of  the  work, 
Epictetus  exhorts  us  to  do  what  we  have 
demonstrated  to  ourselves  we  ought  to  do; 
or  he  taunts  us  with  futility,  for  being 
armed  at  all  points  to  prove  that  lying  is 
wrong,  yet  all  the  time  continuing  to  lie. 
It  is  true,  Plato,  in  words  which  are  almost 
the  words  of  the  New  Testament  or  the 
Imitation,  calls  life  a  learning  to  die.  But 
underneath  the  superficial  agreement  the 
fundamental  divergence  still  subsists.  The 
understanding  of  Solomon  is  "  the  walking 
in  the  way  of  the  commandments";  this 
is  "the  way  of  peace,"  and  it  is  of  this 
that  blessedness  comes.  In  the  New  Tes- ' 
tament,  the  truth  which  gives  us  the  peace 
of  God  and  makes  us  free,  is  the  love  of 
Christ  constraining  us  to  crucify,  as  he 
did,  and  with  a  like  purpose  of  moral 
regeneration,  the  flesh  with  its  affections 
and  lusts,  and  thus  establishing  as  we  have 
seen,  the  law.  The  moral  virtues,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  with  Aristotle  but  the 
porch  and  access  to  the  intellectual, 
and  with  these  last  is  blessedness.  That 
partaking  of  the  divine  life,  which  both 
Hellenism  and  Hebraism,  as  we  have  said, 
fix  as  their  crowning  aim,  Plato  expressly 
denies  to  the  man  of  practical  virtue 
merely,  of  self-conquest  with  any  other 
motive  than  that  of  perfect  intellectual 
vision.  He  reserves  it  for  the  lover  of 
pure  knowledge,  as  seeing  things  as  they 
really  are, — the  <piXoiia6T)<;. 

Both  Hellenism  and  Hebraism  arise  out 
of  the  wants  of  human  nature,  and  address 
themselves  to  satisfying  those  wants. 
But  their  methods  are  so  different,  they 
lay  stress  on  such  different  points,  and 
call  into  being  by  their  respective  dis- 
ciplines such  different  activities,  that  the 
face  which  human  nature  presents  when 
it  passes  from  the  hands  of  one  of  them  to 
those  of  the  other,  is  no  longer  the  same. 


524 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


To  get  rid  of  one's  ignorance,  to  see  things 
as  they  are,  and  by  seeing  them  as  they 
are  to  see  them  in  their  beauty,  is  the 
simple  and  attractive  ideal  which  Hel- 
lenism holds  out  before  human  nature; 
and  from  the  simplicity  and  charm  of  this 
ideal,  Hellenism,  and  human  life  in  the 
hands  of  Hellenism,  is  invested  with  a  land 
of  aerial  ease,  clearness,  and  radiancy, 
they  are  full  of  what  we  call  sweetness  and 
light.  Difficulties  are  kept  out  of  view, 
and  the  beauty  and  rationalness  of  the 
ideal  have  all  our  thoughts.  "The  best 
man  is  he  who  most  tries  to  perfect  him- 
self, and  the  happiest  man  is  he  who  most 
feels  that  he  is  perfecting  himself," — 
this  account  of  the  matter  by  Socrates, 
the  true  Socrates  of  the  "Memorabilia,"  has 
something  so  simple,  spontaneous,  and 
unsophisticated  about  it,  that  it  seems 
to  fill  us  with  clearness  and  hope  when  we 
hear  it.  But  there  is  a  saying  which  I 
have  heard  attributed  to  Mr.  Carlyle 
about  Socrates, — a  very  happy  saying, 
whether  it  is  really  Mr.  Carlyle's  or  not, — 
which  excellently  marks  the  essential 
point  in  which  Hebraism  differs  from 
Hellenism.  "Socrates,"  this  saying  goes, 
"is  terribly  at  ease  in  Zion."  Hebraism, 
— and  here  is  the  source  of  its  wonderful 
strength, — has  always  been  severely  pre- 
occupied with  an  awful  sense  of  the  im- 
possibility of  being  at  ease  in  Zion;  of  the 
difficulties  which  oppose  themselves  to 
man's  pursuit  or  attainment  of  that 
perfection  of  which  Socrates  talks  so  hope- 
fully, and,  as  from  this  point  of  view  one 
might  almost  say,  so  glibly.  It  is  all  very 
well  to  talk  of  getting  rid  of  one's  igno- 
rance, of  seeing  things  in  their  reality, 
seeing  them  in  their  beauty;  but  how  is 
this  to  be  done  when  there  is  something 
which  thwarts  and  spoils  all  our  efforts? 

This  something  is  sin;  and  the  space 
which  sin  fills  in  Hebraism,  as  compared 
with  Hellenism,  is  indeed  prodigious. 
This  obstacle  to  perfection  fills  the  whole 
scene,  and  perfection  appears  remote  and 
rising  away  from  earth,  in  the  background. 
Under  the  name  of  sin,  the  difficulties 
of  knowing  oneself  and  conquering  one- 
self which  impede  man's  passage  to  per- 


fection, become,  for  Hebraism,  a  positive, 
active  entity  hostile  to  man,  a  mysterious 
power  which  I  heard  Dr.  Pusey  the  other 
day,  in  one  of  his  impressive  sermons, 
compare  to  a  hideous  hunchback  seated 
on  our  shoulders,  and  which  it  is  the  main 
business  of  our  lives  to  hate  and  oppose. 
The  discipline  of  the  Old  Testament  may 
be  summed  up  as  a  discipline  teaching  us 
to  abhor  and  flee  from  sin;  the  discipline 
of  the  New  Testament,  as  a  discipline 
teaching  us  to  die  to  it.  As  Hellenism 
speaks  of  thinking  clearly,  seeing  things 
in  their  essence  and  beauty,  as  a  grand 
and  precious  feat  for  man  to  achieve,  so 
Hebraism  speaks  of  becoming  conscious 
of  sin,  of  awakening  to  a  sense  of  sin,  as  a 
feat  of  this  kind.  It  is  obvious  to  what 
wide  divergence  these  differing  tendencies, 
actively  followed,  must  lead.  As  one 
passes  and  repasses  from  Hellenism  to 
Hebraism,  from  Plato  to  St.  Paul,  one 
feels  inclined  to  rub  one's  eyes  and  ask 
oneself  whether  man  is  indeed  a  gentle 
and  simple  being,  showing  the  traces  of  a 
noble  and  divine  nature;  or  an  unhappy 
chained  captive,  laboring  with  groanings 
that  cannot  be  uttered  to  free  himself 
from  the  body  of  this  death. 

Apparently  it  was  the  Hellenic  concep- 
tion of  human  nature  which  was  un- 
sound, for  the  world  could  not  live  by  it. 
Absolutely  to  call  it  unsound,  however, 
is  to  fall  into  the  common  error  of  its 
Hebraizing  enemies;  but  it  was  unsound 
at  that  particular  moment  of  man's 
development,  it  was  premature.  The 
indispensable  basis  of  conduct  and  self- 
control,  the  platform  upon  which  alone 
the  perfection  aimed  at  by  Greece  can 
come  into  bloom,  was  not  to  be  reached 
by  our  race  so  easily;  centuries  of  proba- 
tion and  discipline  were  needed  to  bring 
us  to  it.  Therefore  the  bright  promise  of 
Hellenism  faded,  and  Hebraism  ruled  the 
world.  Then  was  seen  that  astonishing 
spectacle,  so  well  marked  by  the  often- 
quoted  words  of  the  prophet  Zechariah, 
when  men  of  all  languages  and  nations 
took  hold  of  the  skirt  of  him  that  was  a 
Jew,  saying: — "We  will  go  with  you,  for  we 
have  heard  that  God  is  with  you."  And  the 


ESSAYS 


525 


Hebraism  which  thus  received  and  ruled 
a  world  all  gone  out  of  the  way  and  alto- 
gether become  unprofitable,  was,  and 
could  not  but  be,  the  later,  the  more 
spiritual,  the  more  attractive  develop- 
ment of  Hebraism.  It  was  Christianity; 
that  is  to  say,  Hebraism  aiming  at  self- 
conquest  and  rescue  from  the  thrall  of 
vile  affections,  not  by  obedience  to  the 
letter  of  a  law,  but  by  conformity  to  the 
image  of  self-sacrificing  example.  To  a 
world  stricken  with  moral  enervation 
Christianity  offered  its  spectacle  of  an 
inspired  self-sacrifice;  to  men  who  re- 
fused themselves  nothing,  it  showed  one 
who  refused  himself  everything; — "my 
Saviour  banished  joy!"  says  George  Her- 
bert. When  the  alma  Venus,  the  life- 
giving  and  joy-giving  power  of  nature, 
so  fondly  cherished  by  the  Pagan  world, 
could  not  save  her  followers  from  self- 
dissatisfaction  and  ennui,  the  severe 
words  of  the  apostle  came  bracingly  and 
refreshingly:  "Let  no  man  deceive  you 
with  vain  words,  for  because  of  these 
things  cometh  the  wrath  of  God  upon  the 
children  of  disobedience."  Through  age 
after  age  and  generation  after  genera- 
tion, our  race,  or  all  that  part  of  our  race 
which  was  most  living  and  progressive, 
was  baptized  into  a  death;  and  endeavored, 
by  suffering  in  the  flesh,  to  cease  from  sin. 
Of  this  endeavor,  the  animating  labors  and 
afflictions  of  early  Christianity,  the  touch- 
ing asceticism  of  mediaeval  Christianity, 
are  the  great  historical  manifestations. 
Literary  monuments  of  it,  each  in  its  own 
way  incomparable,  remain  in  the  Epistles 
of  St.  Paul,  in  St.  Augustine's  Confessions, 
and  in  the  two  original  and  simplest  books 
of  the  Imitation. 

Of  two  disciplines  laying  their  main 
stress,  the  one,  on  clear  intelligence,  the 
other,  on  firm  obedience;  the  one,  on  com- 
prehensively knowing  the  grounds  of  one's 
duty,  the  other,  on  diligently  practising  it; 
the  one,  on  taking  all  possible  care  (to 
use  Bishop  Wilson's  words  again)  that  the 
light  we  have  be  not  darkness,  the  other, 
that  according  to  the  best  light  we  have  we 
diligently  walk, — the  priority  naturally  be- 
longs to  that  discipline  which  braces  all 


man's  moral  powers,  and  founds  for  him 
an  indispensable  basis  of  character.  And, 
therefore,  it  is  justly  said  of  the  Jewish 
people,  who  were  charged  with  setting 
powerfully  forth  that  side  of  the  divine 
order  to  which  the  words  conscience  and 
self-conquest  point,  that  they  were  "en- 
trusted with  the  oracles  of  God";  as  it  is 
justly  said  of  Christianity,  which  fol- 
lowed Judaism  and  which  set  forth  this 
side  with  a  much  deeper  effectiveness  and 
a  much  wider  influence,  that  the  wisdom 
of  the  old  Pagan  world  was  foolishness 
compared  to  it.  No  words  of  devotion 
and  admiration  can  be  too  strong  to 
render  thanks  to  these  beneficent  forces 
which  have  so  borne  forward  humanity  in 
its  appointed  work  of  coming  to  the  knowl- 
edge and  possession  of  itself;  above  all,  in 
those  great  moments  when  their  action  was 
the  wholesomest  and  the  most  necessary. 
But  the  evolution  of  these  forces,  sep- 
arately and  in  themselves,  is  not  the  whole 
evolution  of  humanity, — their  single  his- 
tory is  not  the  whole  history  of  man; 
whereas  their  admirers  are  always  apt  to 
make  it  stand  for  the  whole  history. 
Hebraism  and  Hellenism  are,  neither  of 
them,  the  law  of  human  development, 
as  their  admirers  are  prone  to  make  them ; 
they  are,  each  of  them,  contributions  to 
human  development, — august  contribu- 
tions, invaluable  contributions;  and  each 
showing  itself  to  us  more  august,  more  in- 
valuable, more  preponderant  over  the 
other,  according  to  the  moment  in  which 
we  take  them  and  the  relation  in  which  we 
stand  to  them.  The  nations  of  our 
modern  world,  children  of  that  immense 
and  salutary  movement  which  broke  up 
the  Pagan  world,  inevitably  stand  to 
Hellenism  in  a  relation  which  dwarfs  it, 
and  to  Hebraism  in  a  relation  which  mag- 
nifies it.  They  are  inevitably  prone  to  take 
Hebraism  as  the  law  of  human  develop- 
ment, and  not  as  simply  a  contribution  to 
it,  however  precious.  And  yet  the  lesson 
must  perforce  be  learned,  that  the  human 
spirit  is  wider  than  the  most  priceless  of  the 
forces  which  bear  it  onward,  and  that  to 
the  whole  development  of  man  Hebraism 
itself  is,  like  Hellenism,  but  a  contribution. 


5*6 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  (1825-1895) 

As  Darwin  was  the  painstaking  investigator  into  new  fields  of  scientific  inquiry,  and  thus  became  the 
revealer  of  the  theory  of  evolution  which  has  so  profoundly  influenced  the  life  and  thought  of  the  world, 
so  Huxley  became  the  popular  disseminator  and  propagandist  of  the  new  science.  His  literary  gift  was 
of  immense  service  to  him  in  his  constant  warfare  in  behalf  of  the  new  gospel  of  science.  The  following 
brief  essay  explains  in  his  clearest  manner  what  the  method  of  science  actually  is. 


THE  METHOD  OF  SCIENTIFIC 
INVESTIGATION* 

THE  method  of  scientific  investigation  is 
nothing  but  the  expression  of  the  neces- 
sary mode  of  working  of  the  human  mind. 
It  is  simply  the  mode  at  which  all  phe- 
nomena are  reasoned  about,  rendered  pre- 
cise and  exact.  There  is  no  more  dif- 
ference, but  there  is  just  the  same  kind 
of  difference,  between  the  mental  opera- 
tions of  a  man  of  science  and  those  of  an 
.ordinary  person,  as  there  is  between  the 
operations  and  methods  of  a  baker  or  of 
a  butcher  weighing  out  his  goods  hi  com- 
mon scales,  and  the  operations  of  a  chem- 
ist in  performing  a  difficult  and  complex 
analysis  by  means  of  his  balance  and 
finely  graduated  weights.  It  is  not  that 
the  action  of  the  scales  in  the  one  case, 
and  the  balance  in  the  other,  differ  in  the 
principles  of  their  construction  or  manner 
of  working;  but  the  beam  of  one  is  set  on 
an  infinitely  finer  axis  than  the  other, 
and  of  course  turns  by  the  addition  of  a 
much  smaller  weight. 

You  will  understand  this  better,  per- 
haps, if  I  give  you  some  familiar  example. 
You  have  all  heard  it  repeated,  I  dare  say, 
that  men  of  science  work  by  means  of  in- 
duction and  deduction,  and  that  by  the 
help  of  these  operations,  they,  in  a  sort 
of  sense,  wring  from  Nature  certain  other 
things,  which  are  called  natural  laws,  and 
causes,  and  that  out  of  these,  by  some 
cunning  skill  of  their  own,  they  build  up 
hypotheses  and  theories.  And  it  is  im- 
agined by  many,  that  the  operations  of  the 
common  mind  can  be  by  no  means  com- 
pared with  these  processes,  and  that  they 
have  to  be  acquired  by  a  sort  of  special 
apprenticeship  to  the  craft.  To  hear  all 

'Reprinted  from  "Darwiniana"  by  permission  of  D.  Appleton 
and  Company,  publishers  of  Huxley's  Works. 


these  large  words,  you  would  think  that 
the  mind  of  a  man  of  science  must  be  con- 
stituted differently  from  that  of  his  fellow 
men;  but  if  you  will  not  be  frightened  by 
terms,  you  will  discover  that  you  are  quite 
wrong,  and  that  all  these  terrible  appara- 
tus are  being  used  by  yourselves  every 
day  and  every  hour  of  your  lives. 

There  is  a  well-known  incident  in  one 
of  Moliere's  plays,  where  the  author  makes 
the  hero  express  unbounded  delight  on 
being  told  that  he  had  been  talking  prose 
during  the  whole  of  his  life.  In  the  same 
way,  I  trust,  that  you  will  take  comfort, 
and  be  delighted  with  yourselves,  on  the 
discovery  that  you  have  been  acting  on  the 
principles  of  inductive  and  deductive  phil- 
osophy during  the  same  period.  Prob- 
ably there  is  not  one  here  who  has  not  in 
the  course  of  the  day  had  occasion  to  set 
in  motion  a  complex  train  of  reasoning, 
of  the  very  same  kind,  though  differing 
of  course  in  degree,  as  that  which  a  scien- 
tific man  goes  through  in  tracing  the  causes 
of  natural  phenomena. 

A  very  trivial  circumstance  will  serve 
to  exemplify  this.  Suppose  you  go  into 
a  fruiterer's  shop,  wanting  an  apple,—1 
you  take  up  one,  and,  on  biting  it,  you 
find  it  is  sour;  you  look  at  it,  and  see  thaf 
it  is  hard  and  green.  You  take  up  an- 
other one,  and  that  too  is  hard,  green,  and 
sour.  The  shopman  offers  you  a  third; 
but,  before  biting  it,  you  examine  it,  and 
find  that  it  is  hard  and  green,  and  you  im- 
mediately say  that  you  will  not  have  it, 
as  it  must  be  sour,  like  those  that  you  have 
already  tried. 

Nothing  can  be  more  simple  than  that, 
you  think;  but  if  you  will  take  the  trouble 
to  analyze  and  trace  out  into  its  logical 
elements  what  has  been  done  by  the 
mind,  you  will  be  greatly  surprised.  In 
the  first  place  you  have  performed  the 


ESSAYS 


527 


operation  of  induction.  You  found  that, 
in  two  experiences,  hardness  and  greenness 
in  apples  went  together  with  sourness.  It 
was  so  in  the  first  case,  and  it  was  con- 
firmed by  the  second.  True,  it  is  a  very 
small  basis,  but  still  it  is  enough  to  make 
an  induction  from;  you  generalize  the 
facts,  and  you  expect  to  find  sourness  in 
apples  where  you  get  hardness  and  green- 
ness. You  found  upon  that  a  general 
law  that  all  hard  and  green  apples  are 
sour;  and  that,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  a  per- 
fect induction.  Well,  having  got  your 
natural  law  in  this  way,  when  you  are 
offered  another  apple  which  you  find  is 
hard  and  green,  you  say,  "All  hard  and 
green  apples  are  sour;  this  apple  is  hard 
and  green,  therefore  this  apple  is  sour." 
That  train  of  reasoning  is  what  logicians 
call  a  syllogism,  and  has  all  its  various 
parts  and  terms, — its  major  premise, 
its  minor  premise  and  its  conclusion. 
And,  by  the  help  of  further  reasoning, 
which,  if  drawn  out,  would  have  to  be 
exhibited  in  two  or  three  other  syllogisms, 
you  arrive  at  your  final  determination, 
"I  will  not  have  that  apple."  So  that, 
you  see,  you  have,  in  the  first  place, 
established  a  law  by  induction,  and  upon 
that  you  have  founded  a  deduction,  and 
reasoned  out  the  special  particular  case. 
Well  now,  suppose,  having  got  your  con- 
clusion of  the  law,  that  at  some  time  after- 
wards, you  are  discussing  the  qualities  of 
apples  with  a  friend:  you  will  say  to  him, 
"It  is  a  very  curious  thing, — but  I  find 
that  all  hard  and  green  apples  are  sour!" 
Your  friend  says  to  you,  "  But  how  do  you 
know  that?"  You  at  once  reply,  "Oh, 
because  I  have  tried  them  over  and  over 
again,  and  have  always  found  them  to  be 
Well,  if  we  were  talking  science 


so. 


instead  of  common  sense,  we  should  call 
that  an  experimental  verification.  And, 
if  still  opposed,  you  go  further,  and  say, 
"I  have  heard  from  the  people  in  Somer- 
setshire and  Devonshire,  where  a  large 
number  of  apples  are  grown,  that  they 
have  observed  the  same  thing.  It  is 
also  found  to  be  the  case  in  Normandy, 
and  in  North  America.  In  short,  I  find 
it  to  be  the  universal  experience  of  man- 


kind wherever  attention  has  been  di- 
rected to  the  subject."  Whereupon,  your 
friend,  unless  he  is  a  very  unreasonable 
man,  agrees  with  you,  and  is  convinced 
that  you  are  quite  right  in  the  conclusion 
you  have  drawn.  He  believes,  although 
perhaps  he  does  not  know  he  believes  it, 
that  the  more  extensive  verifications  are, — 
that  the  more  frequently  experiments 
have  been  made,  and  results  of  the  same 
kind  arrived  at, — that  the  more  varied 
the  conditions  under  which  the  same 
results  are  attained,  the  more  certain  is 
the  ultimate  conclusion,  and  he  disputes 
the  question  no  further.  He  sees  that 
the  experiment  has  been  tried  under  all 
sorts  of  conditions,  as  to  time,  place, 
and  people,  with  the  same  result;  and  he 
says  with  you,  therefore,  that  the  law  you 
have  laid  down  must  be  a  good  one,  and 
he  must  believe  it. 

In  science  we  do  the  same  thing; — the 
philosopher  exercises  precisely  the  same 
faculties,  though  in  a  much  more  delicate 
manner.  In  scientific  inquiry  it  becomes 
a  matter  of  duty  to  expose  a  supposed  law 
to  every  possible  kind  of  verification,  and 
to  take  care,  moreover,  that  this  is  done 
intentionally,  and  not  left  to  a  mere  acci- 
dent, as  in  the  case  of  the  apples.  And  in 
science,  as  in  common  life,  our  confidence 
in  a  law  is  in  exact  proportion  to  the 
absence  of  variation  in  the  result  of  our 
experimental  verifications.  For  instance, 
if  you  let  go  your  grasp  of  an  article 
you  may  have  in  your  hand,  it  will 
immediately  fall  to  the  ground.  That  is 
a  very  common  verification  of  one  of  the 
best  established  laws  of  nature — that  of 
gravitation.  The  method  by  which  men 
of  science  establish  the  existence  of  that 
law  is  exactly  the  same  as  that  by  which 
we  have  established  the  trivial  proposi- 
tion about  the  sourness  of  hard  and  green 
apples.  But  we  believe  it  in  such  an 
extensive,  thorough,  and  unhesitating 
manner  because  the  universal  experience 
of  mankind  verifies  it,  and  we  can  verify 
it  ourselves  at  any  time;  and  that  is  the 
strongest  possible  foundation  on  which 
any  natural  law  can  rest. 

So  much,  then  by  way  of  proof  that 


$28 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


the  method  of  establishing  laws  in  science 
is  exactly  the  same  as  that  pursued  in 
common  life.  Let  us  now  turn  to  an- 
other matter  (though  really  it  is  but  an- 
other phase  of  the  same  question),  and 
that  is,  the  method  by  which,  from  the 
relations  of  certain  phenomena,  we  prove 
that  some  stand  in  the  position  of  causes 
towards  the  others. 

I  want  to  put  the  case  clearly  before  you, 
and  I  will  therefore  show  you  what  I  mean 
by  another  familiar  example.  I  will  sup- 
pose that  one  of  you,  on  coming  down 
in  the  morning  to  the  parlor  of  your  house, 
finds  that  a  tea-pot  and  some  spoons 
which  had  been  left  in  the  room  on  the 
previous  evening  are  gone, — the  win- 
dow is  open,  and  you  observe  the  mark  of 
a  dirty  hand  on  the  window-frame, 
and  perhaps,  in  addition  to  that,  you 
notice  the  impress  of  a  hob-nailed  shoe  on 
the  gravel  outside.  All  these  phenom- 
ena have  struck  your  attention  instantly, 
and  before  two  seconds  have  passed  you 
say,  "Oh,  somebody  has  broken  open  the 
window,  entered  the  room,  and  run  off 
with  the  spoons  and  the  tea-pot!"  That 
speech  is  out  of  your  mouth  in  a  moment. 
And  you  will  probably  add,  "I  know 
there  has;  I  am  quite  sure  of  it!"  You 
mean  to  say  exactly  what  you  know;  but  in 
reality  you  are  giving  expression  to  what 
is,  in  all  essential  particulars,  an  hypoth- 
esis. You  do  not  know  it  at  all;  it  is 
nothing  but  an  hypothesis  rapidly  framed 
in  your  own  mind.  And  it  is  an  hypoth- 
esis founded  on  a  long  train  of  induc- 
tions and  deductions. 

What  are  those  inductions  and  deduc- 
tions, and  how  have  you  got  at  this  hypoth- 
esis? You  have  observed  hi  the  first 
place,  that  the  window  is  open;  but  by  a 
train  of  reasoning  involving  many  induc- 
tions and  deductions,  you  have  probably 
arrived  long  before  at  the  general  law — 
and  a  very  good  one  it  is — that  windows 
do  not  open  of  themselves;  and  you  there- 
fore conclude  that  something  has  opened 
the  window.  A  second  general  law  that 
you  have  arrived  at  in  the  same  way  is, 
that  tea-pots  and  spoons  do  not  go  out  of 
a  window  spontaneously,  and  you  are 


satisfied  that,  as  they  are  not  now  where 
you  left  them,  they  have  been  removed. 
In  the  third  place,  you  look  at  the  marks 
on  the  window-sill,  and  the  shoe-marks 
outside,  and  you  say  that  hi  all  previous 
experience  the  former  kind  of  mark  has 
never  been  produced  by  anything  else  but 
the  hand  of  a  human  being;  and  the  same 
experience  shows  that  no  other  animal 
but  man  at  present  wears  shoes  with  hob- 
nails in  them  such  as  would  produce  the 
marks  in  the  gravel.  I  do  not  know, 
even  if  we  could  discover  any  of  those 
"missing  links"  that  are  talked  about, 
that  they  would  help  us  to  any  other  con- 
clusion !  At  any  rate  the  law  which  states 
our  present  experience  is  strong  enough 
for  my  present  purpose.  You  next  reach 
the  conclusion  that,  as  these  kinds  of 
marks  have  not  been  left  by  any  other 
animal  than  man,  or  are  liable  to  be  form- 
ed in  any  other  way  than  a  man's 
hand  and  shoe,  the  marks  in  question 
have  been  formed  by  a  man  in  that  way. 
You  have,  further,  a  general  law,  founded 
on  observation  and  experience,  and  that, 
too,  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  very  univer- 
sal and  unimpeachable  one, — that  .same 
men  are  thieves;  and  you  assume  at  once 
from  all  these  premises — and  that  is  what 
constitutes  your  hypothesis — that  the 
man  who  made  the  marks  outside  and  on 
the  window-sill  opened  the  window,  got 
into  the  room,  and  stole  your  tea-pot  and 
spoons.  You  have  now  arrived  at  a  vera 
causa; — you  have  assumed  a  cause  which, 
it  is  plain,  is  competent  to  produce  all  the 
phenomena  you  have  observed.  You 
can  explain  all  these  phenomena  only  by 
the  hypothesis  of  a  thief.  But  that  is  a 
hypothetical  conclusion,  of  the  justice  of 
which  you  have  no  absolute  proof  at  all; 
it  is  only  rendered  highly  probable  by  a 
series  of  inductive  and  deductive  reason- 
ings. 

I  suppose  your  first  action,  assuming 
that  you  are  a  man  of  ordinary  common 
sense,  and  that  you  have  established  this 
hypothesis  to  your  own  satisfaction,  will 
very  likely  be  to  go  off  for  the  police,  and 
set  them  on  the  track  of  the  burglar,  with 
the  view  to  the  recovery  of  your  property. 


ESSAYS 


529 


But  just  as  you  are  starting  with  this 
object,  some  person  comes  in,  and  on 
learning  what  you  are  about,  says,  "My 
good  friend,  you  are  going  on  a  great  deal 
too  fast.  How  do  you  know  that  the 
man  who  really  made  the  marks  took  the 
spoons?  It  might  have  been  a  monkey 
that  took  them,  and  the  man  may  have 
merely  looked  in  afterwards. ' '  You  would 
probably  reply,  "Well,  that  is  all  very  well, 
but  you  see  it  is  contrary  to  all  experience 
of  the  way  tea-pots  and  spoons  are  ab- 
stracted; so  that,  at  any  rate,  your  hypoth- 
esis is  less  probable  than  mine."  While 
you  are  talking  the  thing  over  in  this  way, 
another  friend  arrives,  one  of  the  good 
kind  of  people  that  I  was  talking  of  a  little 
while  ago.  And  he  might  say,  "Oh,  my 
dear  sir,  you  are  certainly  going  on  a  great 
deal  too  fast.  You  are  most  presumptu- 
ous. You  admit  that  all  these  occur- 
rences took  place  when  you  were  fast 
asleep,  at  a  time  when  you  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  known  anything  about  what 
was  taking  place.  How  do  you  know  that 
the  laws  of  Nature  are  not  suspended  dur- 
ing the  night?  It  may  be  that  there  has 
been  some  kind  of  supernatural  inter- 
ference in  this  case."  In  point  of  fact,  he 
declares  that  your  hypothesis  is  one  of 
which  you  cannot  at  all  demonstrate 
the  truth,  and  that  you  are  by  no  means 
sure  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are  the  same 
when  you  are  asleep  as  when  you  are 
awake. 

Well,  now,  you  cannot  at  the  moment 
answer  that  kind  of  reasoning.  You  feel 
that  your  worthy  friend  has  you  some- 
what at  a  disadvantage.  You  will  feel 
perfectly  convinced  in  your  own  mind, 
however,  that  you  are  quite  right,  and 
you  say  to  him,  "My  good  friend,  I  can 
only  be  guided  by  the  natural  probabili- 
ties of  the  case,  and  if  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  stand  aside  and  permit  me  to 
pass,  I  will  go  and  fetch  the  police."  Well, 
we  will  suppose  that  your  journey  is 
successful,  and  that  by  good  luck  you  meet 
with  a  policeman;  that  eventually  the 
burglar  is  found  with  your  property  on  his 
person,  and  the  marks  correspond  to  his 
hand  and  to  his  boots.  Probably  any 


jury  would  consider  those  facts  a  very 
good  experimental  verification  of  your 
hypothesis,  touching  the  cause  of  the  ab- 
normal phenomena  observed  in  your 
parlor,  and  would  act  accordingly. 

Now,  in  this  suppositious  case,  I  have 
taken  phenomena  of  a  very  common  kind, 
in  order  that  you  might  see  what  are  the 
different  steps  in  an  ordinary  process  of 
reasoning,  if  you  will  only  take  the  trouble 
to  analyze  it  carefully.  All  the  operations 
I  have  described,  you  will  see,  are  involved 
in  the  mind  of  any  man  of  sense  in  leading 
him  to  a  conclusion  as  to  the  course  he 
should  take  in  order  to  make  good  a 
robbery  and  punish  the  offender.  I  say 
that  you  are  led,  in  that  case,  to  your  con- 
clusion by  exactly  the  same  tram  of  reason- 
ing as  that  which  a  man  of  science  pursues 
when  he  is  endeavoring  to  discover  the 
origin  and  laws  of  the  most  occult  phe- 
nomena. The  process  is,  and  always  must 
be,  the  same;  and  precisely  the  same 
mode  of  reasoning  was  employed  by  New- 
ton and  Laplace  in  their  endeavors  to  dis- 
cover and  define  the  causes  of  the  move- 
ments of  the  heavenly  bodies,  as  you,  with 
your  own  common  sense,  would  employ  to 
detect  a  burglar.  The  only  difference  is, 
that  the  nature  of  the  inquiry  being  more 
abstruse,  every  step  has  to  be  most  care- 
fully watched,  so  that  there  may  not  be  a 
single  crack  or  flaw  in  your  hypothesis. 
A  flaw  or  crack  in  many  of  the  hypotheses 
of  daily  life  may  be  of  little  or  no  moment 
as  affecting  the  general  correctness  of 
the  conclusions  at  which  we  may  arrive; 
but,  in  a  scientific  inquiry,  a  fallacy,  great 
or  small,  is  always  of  importance,  and  is 
sure  to  be  in  the  long  run  constantly 
productive  of  mischievous  if  not  fatal  re- 
sults. 

Do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  misled  by 
the  common  notion  that  an  hypothesis  is 
untrustworthy  simply  because  it  is  an 
hypothesis.  It  is  often  urged,  in  respect 
to  some  scientific  conclusion,  that,  after 
all,  it  is  only  an  hypothesis.  But  what 
more  have  we  to  guide  us  in  nine-tenths  of 
the  most  important  affairs  of  daily  life 
than  hypotheses,  and  often  very  ill- 
based  ones?  So  that  in  science,  where  the 


53° 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


evidence  of  an  hypothesis  is  subjected  to 
the  most  rigid  examination,  we  may 
rightly  pursue  the  same  course.  You 
may  have  hypotheses  and  hypotheses.  A 
man  may  say,  if  he  likes,  that  the  moon  is 
made  of  green  cheese:  that  is  an  hypothesis. 
But  another  man  who  has  devoted  a 
great  deal  of  time  and  attention  to  the 
subject,  and  availed  himself  of  the  most 
powerful  telescopes  and  the  results  of  the 
observations  of  others,  declares  that  in 
his  opinion  it  is  probably  composed  of 
materials  very  similar  to  those  of  which 
our  own  earth  is  made  up:  and  that  is  also 
only  an  hypothesis.  But  I  need  not  tell 
you  that  there  is  an  enormous  difference 
in  the  value  of  the  two  hypotheses.  That 
one  which  is  based  on  sound  scientific 
knowledge  is  sure  to  have  a  corresponding 
value;  and  that  which  is  a  mere  hasty 
random  guess  is  likely  to  have  but  little 


value.  Every  great  step  in  our  progress 
in  discovering  causes  has  been  made  in 
exactly  the  same  way  as  that  which  I 
have  detailed  to  you.  A  person  observing 
the  occurrence  of  certain  facts  and  phe- 
nomena asks,  naturally  enough,  what  proc- 
ess, what  kind  of  operation  known  to 
occur  in  Nature  applied  to  the  particular 
case,  will  unravel  and  explain  the  mystery? 
Hence  you  have  the  scientific  hypothesis; 
and  its  value  will  be  proportionate  to  the 
care  and  completeness  with  which  its 
basis  had  been  tested  and  verified.  It  is  in 
these  matters  as  in  the  commonest  affairs 
of  practical  life:  the  guess  of  the  fool  will 
be  folly,  while  the  guess  of  the  wise  man 
will  contain  wisdom.  In  all  cases,  you 
see  that  the  value  of  the  result  depends  on 
the  patience  and  faithfulness  with  which 
the  investigator  applies  to  his  hypothesis 
every  possible  kind  of  verification. 


WILLIAM  JAMES  (1842-1910) 

William  James,  one  of  America's  foremost  philosophers,  was  professor  at  Harvard  University  from 
1872  until  his  death.  In  the  following  essay  Professor  James  has  endeavored  to  prove  that  the  masculine 
virtues  of  courage,  steadfastness,  and  self-sacrifice,  which  are  fostered  by  military  discipline,  are  neces- 
sary to  the  welfare  of  the  world,  and  until  we  can  discover  a  means  by  which  these  qualities  are  adequately 
excited  we  need  not  talk  about  the  abolition  of  the  military  spirit. 


THE  MORAL  EQUIVALENT  OF  WAR* 

THE  war  against  war  is  going  to  be  no 
holiday  excursion  or  camping  party. 
The  military  feelings  are  too  deeply 
grounded  to  abdicate  their  place  among 
our  ideals  until  better  substitutes  are 
offered  than  the  glory  and  shame  that 
come  to  nations  as  well  as  to  individuals 
from  the  ups  and  downs  of  politics  and  the 
vicissitudes  of  trade.  There  is  something 
highly  paradoxical  in  the  modern  man's 
relation  to  war.  Ask  all  our  millions, 
north  and  south,  whether  they  would 
vote  now  (were  such  a  thing  possible) 
to  have  our  war  for  the  Union  expunged 
from  history,  and  the  record  of  a  peaceful 
transition  to  the  present  time  substituted 
for  that  of  its  marches  and  battles,  and 

•First  published  by  the  American  Association  for  Inter- 
national Conciliation;  reprinted  here  by  permission  of  Long- 
mans, Green,  and  Company,  publishers  of  "Memories  and 
Studies"  by  William  James,  in  which  this  essay  is  included. 


probably  hardly  a  handful  of  eccentrics 
would  say  yes.  Those  ancestors,  thostf1 
efforts,  those  memories  and  legends,  are 
the  most  ideal  part  of  what  we  now  own 
together,  a  sacred  spiritual  possession 
worth  more  than  all  the  blood  poured  out. 
Yet  ask  those  same  people  whether  they 
would  be  willing  in  cold  blood  to  start 
another  civil  war  now  to  gain  another 
similar  possession,  and  not  one  man  or 
woman  would  vote  for  the  proposition. 
In  modern  eyes,  precious  though  wars 
may  be,  they  must  not  be  waged  solely 
for  the  sake  of  the  ideal  harvest.  Only 
when  forced  upon  one,  only  when  an 
enemy's  injustice  leaves  us  no  alternative, 
is  a  war  now  thought  permissible. 

It  was  not  thus  in  ancient  times.  The 
earlier  men  were  hunting  men,  and  to 
hunt  a  neighboring  tribe,  kill  the  males, 
loot  the  village  and  possess  the  females, 
was  the  most  profitable,  as  well  as  the 


ESSAYS 


most  exciting,  way  of  living.  Thus  were 
the  more  martial  tribes  selected,  and  in 
chiefs  and  peoples  a  pure  pugnacity  and 
love  of  glory  came  to  mingle  with  the 
more  fundamental  appetite  for  plunder. 

Modern  war  is  so  expensive  that  we 
feel  trade  to  be  a  better  avenue  to  plunder; 
but  modern  man  inherits  all  the  innate 
pugnacity  and  all  the  love  of  glory  of  his 
ancestors.  Showing  war's  irrationality 
and  horror  is  of  no  effect  upon  him.  The 
horrors  make  the  fascination.  War  is 
the  strong  life;  it  is  life  in  extremis;  war 
taxes  are  the  only  ones  men  never  hesitate 
to  pay,  as  the  budgets  of  all  nations  show 
us. 

History  is  a  bath  of  blood.  The  Hiad  is 
one  long  recital  of  how  Diomedes  and 
Ajax,  Sarpedon  and  Hector,  killed.  No 
detail  of  the  wounds  they  made  is  spared 
us,  and  the  Greek  mind  fed  upon  the 
story.  Greek  history  is  a  panorama  of 
jingoism  and  imperialism — war  for  war's 
sake,  all  the  citizens  being  warriors.  It  is 
horrible  reading,  because  of  the  irration- 
ality of  it  all — save  for  the  purpose  of 
making  "history" — and  the  history  is 
that  of  the  utter  ruin  of  a  civilization  in 
intellectual  respects  perhaps  the  highest 
the  earth  has  ever  seen. 

Those  wars  were  purely  piratical.  Pride, 
gold,  women,  slaves,  excitement,  were 
their  only  motives.  In  the  Pelopon- 
nesian  war,  for  example,  the  Athenians 
asked  the  inhabitants  of  Melos  (the  island 
where  the  "Venus  of  Milo"  was  found), 
hitherto  neutral,  to  own  their  lordship. 
The  envoys  meet,  and  hold  a  debate 
which  Thucydides  gives  hi  full,  and 
which,  for  sweet  reasonableness  of  form, 
would  have  satisfied  Matthew  Arnold. 
"The  powerful  exact  what  they  can," 
said  the  Athenians,  "and  the  weak  grant 
what  they  must."  When  the  Meleans 
say  that  sooner  than  be  slaves  they  will 
appeal  to  the  gods,  the  Athenians  reply: 
"Of  the  gods  we  believe  and  of  men  we 
know  that,  by  a  law  of  their  nature, 
wherever  they  can  rule  they  will.  This 
law  was  not  made  by  us,  and  we  are  not 
the  first  to  have  acted  upon  it;  we  did 
but  inherit  it,  and  we  know  that  you  and 


all  mankind,  if  you  were  as  strong  as  we 
are,  would  do  as  we  do.  So  much  for 
the  gods;  we  have  told  you  why  we  expect 
to  stand  as  high  in  their  good  opinion  as 
you."  Well,  the  Meleans  still  refused,  and 
their  town  was  taken.  "The  Athenians," 
Thucydides  quietly  says,  "thereupon  put 
to  death  all  who  were  of  military  age 
and  made  slaves  of  the  women  and 
children.  They  then  colonized  the  island, 
sending  thither  five  hundred  settlers  of 
their  own." 

Alexander's  career  was  piracy  pure  and 
simple,  nothing  but  an  orgy  of  power  and 
plunder,  made  romantic  by  the  character 
of  the  hero.  There  was  no  rational 
principle  in  it,  and  the  moment  he  died 
his  generals  and  governors  attacked  one 
another.  The  cruelty  of  those  times  is 
incredible.  When  Rome  finally  con- 
quered Greece,  Paulus  ^Emilius  was  told 
by  the  Roman  Senate  to  reward  his  sol- 
diers for  their  toil  by  "giving"  them  the 
old  kingdom  of  Epirus.  They  sacked 
seventy  cities  and  carried  off  a  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  inhabitants  as  slaves. 
How  many  they  killed  I  know  not ;  but  in 
Etolia  they  killed  all  the  senators,  five 
hundred  and  fifty  in  number.  Brutus 
was  "the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all," 
but  to  reanimate  his  soldiers  on  the  eve 
of  Philippi  he  similarly  promises  to  give 
them  the  cities  of  Sparta  and  Thessalonica 
to  ravage,  if  they  win  the  fight. 

Such  was  the  gory  nurse  that  trained 
societies  to  cohesiveness.  We  inherit 
the  warlike  type;  and  for  most  of  the 
capacities  of  heroism  that  the  human  race 
is  full  of  we  have  to  thank  this  cruel 
history.  Dead  men  tell  no  tales,  and  if 
there  were  any  tribes  of  other  type  than 
this  they  have  left  no  survivors.  Our 
ancestors  have  bred  pugnacity  into  our 
bone  and  marrow,  and  thousands  of  years 
of  peace  won't  breed  it  out  of  us.  The 
popular  imagination  fairly  fattens  on  the 
thought  of  wars.  Let  public  opinion 
once  reach  a  certain  fighting  pitch,  and  no 
ruler  can  withstand  it.  In  the  Boer  war 
both  governments  began  with  bluff,  but 
couldn't  stay  there,  the  military  tension 
was  too  much  for  them.  In  1898  our 


532 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


people  had  read  the  word  WAR  in  letters 
three  inches  high  for  three  months  in 
every  newspaper.  The  pliant  politician 
McKinley  was  swept  away  by  their  eager- 
ness, and  our  squalid  war  with  Spain  be- 
came a  necessity. 

At  the  present  day,  civilized  opinion  is  a 
curious  mental  mixture.  The  military 
instinct  and  ideals  are  as  strong  as  ever, 
but  are  confronted  by  reflective  criticisms 
which  sorely  curb  their  ancient  freedom. 
Innumerable  writers  are  showing  up  the 
bestial  side  of  military  service.  Pure  loot 
and  mastery  seem  no  longer  morally 
avowable  motives,  and  pretexts  must  be 
found  for  attributing  them  solely  to  the 
enemy.  England  and  we,  our  army  and 
navy  authorities  repeat  without  ceasing, 
arm  solely  for  "peace,"  Germany  and 
Japan  it  is  who  are  bent  on  loot  and  glory. 
"Peace"  in  military  mouths  to-day  is  a 
synonym  for  "war  expected."  The  word 
has  become  a  pure  provocative,  and  no 
government  wishing  peace  sincerely  should 
allow  it  ever  to  be  printed  in  a  newspaper. 
Every  up-to-date  dictionary  should  say 
that  "peace"  and  "war"  mean  the  same 
thing,  now  in  posse,  now  in  actu.  It  may 
even  reasonably  be  said  that  the  intensely 
sharp  competitive  preparation  for  war  by 
the  nation  is  the  real  war,  permanent, 
unceasing;  and  that  the  battles  are  only 
a  sort  of  public  verification  of  the  mas- 
tery gained  during  the  "peace"  interval. 

It  is  plain  that  on  this  subject  civilized 
man  has  developed  a  sort  of  double  per- 
sonality. If  we  take  European  nations, 
no  legitimate  interest  of  any  one  of  them 
would  seem  to  justify  the  tremendous 
destructions  which  a  war  to  compass  it 
would  necessarily  entail.  It  would  seem 
as  though  common  sense  and  reason  ought 
to  find  a  way  to  reach  agreement  in  every 
conflict  of  honest  interests.  I  myself 
think  it  our  bounden  duty  to  believe  in 
such  international  rationality  as  possible. 
But,  as  things  stand,  I  see  how  desperately 
hard  it  is  to  bring  the  peace  party  and  the 
war  party  together,  and  I  believe  that  the 
difficulty  is  due  to  certain  deficiencies  in 
the  programme  of  pacificism  which  set  the 
militarist  imagination  strongly,  and  to  a 


certain  extent  justifiably,  against  it.  In 
the  whole  discussion  both  sides  are  on 
imaginative  and  sentimental  ground.  It 
is  but  one  Utopia  against  another,  and 
everything  one  says  must  be  abstract  and 
hypothetical  Subject  to  this  criticism 
and  caution,  I  will  try  to  characterize  in 
abstract  strokes  the  opposite  imaginative 
forces,  and  point  out  what  to  my  own  very 
fallible  mind  seems  the  best  Utopian 
hypothesis,  the  most  promising  line  of 
conciliation. 

In  my  remarks,  pacificist  though  I 
am,  I  will  refuse  to  speak  of  the  bestial 
side  of  the  war  regime  (already  done 
justice  to  by  many  writers)  and  consider 
only  the  higher  aspects  of  militaristic 
sentiment.  Patriotism  no  one  thinks 
discreditable;  nor  does  any  one  deny  that 
war  is  the  romance  of  history.  But  inor- 
dinate ambitions  are  the  soul  of  every  pa- 
triotism, and  the  possibility  of  violent 
death  the  soul  of  all  romance.  The  milita- 
rily patriotic  and  romantic-minded  every- 
where, and  especially  the  professional 
military  class,  refuse  to  admit  for  a  mo- 
ment that  war  may  be  a  transitory  phe- 
nomenon in  social  evolution.  The  notion 
of  a  sheep's  paradise  like  that  revolts,  they 
say,  our  higher  imagination.  Where  then 
would  be  the  steeps  of  life?  If  war  had 
ever  stopped,  we  should  have  to  reinvent 
it  on  this  view,  to  redeem  life  from  flat 
degeneration. 

Reflective  apologists  for  war  at  the 
present  day  all  take  it  religiously.  It  is 
a  sort  of  sacrament.  Its  profits  are  to  the 
vanquished  as  well  as  to  the  victor;  and 
quite  apart  from  any  question  of  profit, 
it  is  an  absolute  good,  we  are  told,  for  it  is 
human  nature  at  its  highest  dynamic. 
Its  "horrors"  are  a  cheap  price  to  pay  for 
rescue  from  the  only  alternative  supposed, 
of  a  world  of  clerks  and  teachers,  of  co- 
education and  zoophily,  of  "consumer's 
leagues"  and  "associated  charities,"  of 
industrialism  unlimited  and  feminism  un- 
abashed. No  scorn,  no  hardness,  no 
valor  any  more!  Fie  upon  such  a  cattle- 
yard  of  a  planet! 

So  far  as  the  central  essence  of  this  feel- 
ing goes,  no  healthy-minded  person,  it 


ESSAYS 


533 


seems  to  me,  can  help  to  some  degree 
partaking  of  it.  Militarism  is  the  great 
preserver  of  our  ideals  of  hardihood,  and 
human  life  with  no  use  for  hardihood 
would  be  contemptible.  Without  risks 
or  prizes  for  the  darer,  history  would 
be  insipid  indeed;  and  there  is  a  type  of 
military  character  which  every  one  feels 
that  the  race  should  never  cease  to  breed, 
for  everyone  is  sensitive  to  its  superiority. 
The  duty  is  incumbent  on  mankind,  of 
keeping  military  characters  in  stock — of 
keeping  them,  if  not  for  use,  then  as  ends 
in  themselves  and  as  pure  pieces  of  per- 
fection,— so  that  Roosevelt's  weaklings 
and  mollycoddles  may  not  end  by  making 
everything  else  disappear  from  the  face 
of  nature. 

.  This  natural  sort  of  feeling  forms,  I 
think,  the  innermost  soul  of  army  writ- 
ings. Without  any  exception  known  to 
me,  militarist  authors  take  a  highly  mys- 
tical view  of  their  subject,  and  regard  war 
as  a  biological  or  sociological  necessity, 
uncontrolled  by  ordinary  psychological 
checks  and  motives.  When  the  tune  of 
development  is  ripe  the  war  must  come, 
reason  or  no  reason,  for  the  justifications 
pleaded  are  invariably  fictitious.  War  is, 
in  short,  a  permanent  human  obligation. 
General  Homer  Lea,  in  his  recent  book, 
"The  Valor  of  Ignorance,"  plants  himself 
squarely  on  this  ground.  Readiness  for 
war  is  for  him  the  essence  of  nationality, 
and  ability  in  it  the  supreme  measure -of 
the  health  of  nations. 

Nations,  General  Lea  says,  are  never 
stationary — they  must  necessarily  expand 
or  shrink,  according  to  their  vitality  or 
decrepitude.  Japan  now  is  culminating; 
and  by  the  fatal  law  in  question  it  is  im- 
possible that  her  statesmen  should  not 
long  since  have  entered,  with  extraordi- 
nary foresight,  upon  a  vast  policy  of 
conquest — the  game  in  which  the  first 
moves  were  her  wars  with  China  and 
Russia  and  her  treaty  with  England,  and 
of  which  the  final  objective  is  the  capture 
of  the  Philippines,  the  Hawaiian  Islands, 
Alaska,  and  the  whole  of  our  coast  west 
of  the  Sierra  Passes.  This  will  give 
Japan  what  her  ineluctable  vocation  as  a 


state  absolutely  forces  her  to  claim,  the 
possession  of  the  entire  Pacific  Ocean, 
and  to  oppose  these  deep  designs  we 
Americans  have,  according  to  our  author, 
nothing  but  our  conceit,  our  ignorance, 
our  commercialism,  our  corruption,  and 
our  feminism.  General  Lea  makes  a 
minute  technical  comparison  of  the  mili- 
tary strength  which  we  at  present  could 
oppose  to  the  strength  of  Japan,  and  con- 
cludes that  the  islands,  Alaska,  Oregon, 
and  Southern  California,  would  fall  al- 
most without  resistance,  that  San  Fran- 
cisco must  surrender  in  a  fortnight  to  a 
Japanese  investment,  that  in  three  or  four 
months  the  war  would  be  over,  and  our 
Republic,  unable  to  regain  what  it  had 
heedlessly  neglected  to  protect  sufficiently, 
would  then  "disintegrate,"  until  perhaps 
some  Caesar  should  arise  to  weld  us  again 
into  a  nation, 

A  dismal  forecast  indeed!  Yet  not 
unplausible,  if  the  mentality  of  Japan's 
statesmen  be  of  the  Caesarian  type  of 
which  history  shows  so  many  examples, 
and  which  is  all  that  General  Lea  seems 
able  to  imagine.  But  there  is  no  reason 
to  think  that  women  can  no  longer  be  the 
mothers  of  Napoleonic  or  Alexandrian 
characters;  and  if  these  come  in  Japan 
and  find  their  opportunity,  just  such  sur- 
prises as  "The  Valor  of  Ignorance"  paints 
may  lurk  in  ambush  for  us.  Ignorant  as 
we  still  are  of  the  innermost  recesses  of 
Japanese  mentality,  we  may  be  fool- 
hardy to  disregard  such  possibilities. 

Other  militarists  are  more  complex  and 
more  moral  in  their  considerations.  The 
"Philosophic  des  Krieges,"  by  S.  R.  Stein- 
metz,  is  a  good  example.  War,  according 
to  this  author,  is  an  ordeal  instituted  by 
God,  who  weighs  the  nations  in  its  balance. 
It  is  the  essential  form  of  the  state,  and 
the  only  function  in  which  peoples  can 
employ  all  their  powers  at  once  and  con- 
vergently.  No  victory  is  possible  save 
as  the  resultant  of  a  totality  of  virtues, 
no  defeat  for  which  some  vice  or  weakness 
is  not  responsible.  Fidelity,  cohesiveness, 
tenacity,  heroism,  conscience,  education, 
inventiveness,  economy,  wealth,  physical 
health  and  vigor — there  isn't  a  moral  or 


534 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


intellectual  point  of  superiority  that 
doesn't  tell,  when  God  holds  his  assizes 
and  hurls  the  peoples  upon  one  another. 
Die  W eltgeschichte  ist  das  Weltgericht;  and 
Dr.  Steinmetz  does  not  believe  that  in  the 
long  run  chance  and  luck  play  any  part 
in  apportioning  the  issues. 

The  virtues  that  prevail,  it  must  be 
noted,  are  virtues  anyhow,  superiorities 
that  count  in  peaceful  as  well  as  in  mili- 
tary competition;  but  the  strain  on  them, 
being  infinitely  intenser  in  the  latter  case, 
makes  war  infinitely  more  searching  as  a 
trial.  No  ordeal  is  comparable  to  its 
winnowings.  Its  dread  hammer  is  the 
welder  of  men  into  cohesive  states,  and 
nowhere  but  in  such  states  can  human 
nature  adequately  develop  its  capacity. 
The  only  alternative  is  "degeneration." 

Dr.  Steinmetz  is  a  conscientious  thinker, 
and  his  book,  short  as  it  is,  takes  much 
into  account.  Its  upshot  can,  it  seems  to 
me,  be  summed  up  in  Simon  Patten's 
word,  that  mankind  was  nursed  in  pain 
and  fear,  and  that  the  transition  to  a 
"pleasure  economy"  may  be  fatal  to  a 
being  wielding  no  powers  of  defense 
against  its  disintegrative  influences.  If 
we  speak  of  the  fear  of  emancipation  from 
the  fear  regime,  we  put  the  whole  situation 
into  a  single  phrase;  fear  regarding  our- 
selves now  taking  the  place  of  the  ancient 
fear  of  the  enemy. 

Turn  the  fear  over  as  I  will  in  my  mind, 
it  all  seems  to  lead  back  to  two  unwilling- 
nesses of  the  imagination,  one  aesthetic, 
and  the  other  moral:  unwillingness,  first 
to  envisage  a  future  in  which  army  life, 
with  its  many  elements  of  charm,  shall  be 
forever  impossible,  and  in  which  the  des- 
tinies of  peoples  shall  nevermore  be  de- 
cided quickly,  thrillingly,  and  tragically, 
by  force,  but  only  gradually  and  insipidly 
by  "evolution";  and,  secondly  unwilling- 
ness to  see  the  supreme  theater  of  human 
strenuousness  closed,  and  the  splendid 
military  aptitudes  of  men  doomed  to 
keep  always  in  a  state  of  latency  and  never 
show  themselves  in  action.  These  insis- 
tent unwillingnesses,  no  less  than  other 
aesthetic  and  ethical  insistencies,  have,  it 
seems  to  me,  to  be  listened  to  and  re- 


spected. One  cannot  meet  them  effectively 
by  mere  counter-insistency  on  war's  ex- 
pensiveness  and  horror.  The  horror  makes 
the  thrill;  and  when  the  question  is  of 
getting  the  extremest  and  supremest  out 
of  human  nature,  talk  of  expense  sounds 
ignominious.  The  weakness  of  so  much 
merely  negative  criticism  is  evident — 
pacificism  makes  no  converts  from  the 
military  party.  The  military  party  denies 
neither  the  bestiality  nor  the  horror,  nor 
the  expense;  it  only  says  that  these  things 
tell  but  half  the  story.  It  only  says  that 
war  is  worth  them;  that,  taking  human 
nature  as  a  whole,  its  wars  are  its  best 
protection  against  its  weaker  and  more 
cowardly  self,  and  that  mankind  cannot 
afford  to  adopt  a  peace  economy. 

Pacificists  ought  to  enter  more  deeply 
into  the  aesthetical  and  ethical  point  of 
view  of  their  opponents.  Do  that  first 
in  any  controversy,  says  J.  J.  Chapman; 
then  move  the  point,  and  your  opponent  will 
follow.  So  long  as  anti-militarists  pro- 
pose no  substitute  for  war's  disciplinary 
function,  no  moral  equivalent  of  war,  analo- 
gous, as  one  might  say,  to  the  mechanical 
equivalent  of  heat,  so  long  they  fail  to 
realize  the  full  inwardness  of  the  situa- 
tion. And  as  a  rule  they  do  fail.  The 
duties,  penalties,  and  sanctions  pictured 
in  the  Utopias  they  paint  are  all  too  weak 
and  tame  to  touch  the  military  minded. 
Tolstoi's  pacificism  is  the  only  exception 
to  this  rule,  for  it  is  profoundly  pessimistic 
as  regards  all  this  world's  values,  and 
makes  the  fear  of  the  Lord  furnish  the 
moral  spur  provided  elsewhere  by  the  fear 
of  the  enemy.  But  our  socialistic  peace 
advocates  all  believe  absolutely  in  this 
world's  values;  and  instead  of  the  fear 
of  the  Lord  and  the  fear  of  the  enemy,  the 
only  fear  they  reckon  with  is  the  fear  of 
poverty  if  one  be  lazy.  This  weakness  per- 
vades all  the  socialistic  literature  with 
which  I  am  acquainted.  Even  hi  Lowes 
Dickinson's  exquisite  dialogue,  high  wages 
and  short  hours  are  the  only  forces  in- 
voked for  overcoming  man's  distaste  for 
repulsive  kinds  of  labor.  Meanwhile  men 
at  large  still  live  as  they  always  have  lived 
under  a  pain-and-fear  economy — for  those 


ESSAYS 


535 


of  us  who  live  in  an  ease  economy  are  but 
an  island  in  the  stormy  ocean — and  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  present-day  Utopian 
literature  tastes  mawkish  and  dishwatery 
to  people  who  still  keep  a  sense  for  life's 
more  bitter  flavors.  It  suggests,  in  truth, 
ubiquitous  inferiority. 

Inferiority  is  always  with  us,  and  merci- 
less scorn  of  it  is  the  keynote  of  the  military 
temper.  "  Dogs,  would  you  live  forever?  " 
shouted  Frederick  the  Great.  "Yes," 
say  our  Utopians,  "let  us  live  forever,  and 
raise  our  level  gradually."  The  best  thing 
about  our  "inferiors"  to-day  is  that  they 
are  as  tough  as  nails,  and  physically  and 
morally  almost  as  insensitive.  Utop- 
ianism  would  see  them  soft  and  squeamish, 
while  militarism  would  keep  their  callous- 
ness, but  transfigure  it  into  a  meritorious 
characteristic,  needed  by  "the  service," 
and  redeemed  by  that  from  the  suspicion 
of  inferiority.  All  the  qualities  of  a  man 
acquire  dignity  when  he  knows  that  the 
service  of  the  collectivity  that  owns  him 
needs  them.  If  proud  of  the  collectivity, 
his  own  pride  rises  in  proportion.  No 
collectivity  is  like  an  army  for  nourishing 
such  pride;  but  it  has  to  be  confessed  that 
the  only  sentiment  which  the  image  of 
pacific  cosmopolitan  industrialism  is  ca- 
pable of  a  rousing  in  countless  worthy 
breasts  is  shame  at  the  idea  of  belonging  to 
such  a  collectivity.  It  is  obvious  that  the 
United  States  of  America  as  they  exist 
to-day  impress  a  mind  like  General  Lea's 
as  so  much  human  blubber.  Where  is  the 
sharpness  and  precipitousness,  the  con- 
tempt for  life,  whether  one's  own,  or 
another's?  Where  is  the  savage  "yes" 
and  "no,"  the  unconditional  duty? 
Where  is  the  conscription?  Where  is  the 
blood  tax?  Where  is  anything  that  one 
feels  honored  by  belonging  to? 

Having  said  thus  much  in  preparation,  I 
will  now  confess  my  own  Utopia.  I 
devoutly  believe  in  the  reign  of  peace  and 
in  the  gradual  advent  of  some  sort  of  a 
socialistic  equilibrium.  The  fatalistic 
view  of  the  war  function  is  to  me  nonsense, 
for  I  know  that  war-making  is  due  to 
definite  motives  and  subject  to  prudential 
•'.hecks  and  reasonable  criticisms,  just  like 


any  other  form  of  enterprise.  And  when 
whole  nations  are  the  armies,  and  the 
science  of  destruction  vies  in  intellectual 
refinement  with  the  sciences  of  produc- 
tion, I  see  that  war  becomes  absurd  and  im- 
possible from  its  own  monstrosity.  Ex- 
travagant ambitions  will  have  to  be  re- 
placed by  reasonable  claims,  and  nations 
must  make  common  cause  against  them. 
I  see  no  reason  why  all  this  should  not 
apply  to  yellow  as  well  as  to  white  coun- 
tries, and  I  look  forward  to  a  future  when 
acts  of  war  shall  be  formally  outlawed  as 
between  civilized  peoples. 

All  these  beliefs  of  mine  put  me  squarely 
into  the  anti-militarist  party.  But  I  do 
not  believe  that  peace  either  ought  to  be 
or  will  be  permanent  on  this  globe,  unless 
the  states  pacifically  organized  preserve 
some  of  the  old  elements  of  army  discipline. 
A  permanently  successful  peace  economy 
cannot  be  a  simple  pleasure  economy. 
In  the  more  or  less  socialistic  future 
towards  which  mankind  seems  drifting 
we  must  still  subject  ourselves  collec- 
tively to  these  severities  which  answer  to 
our  real  position  upon  this  only  partly 
hospitable  globe.  We  must  make  new 
energies  and  hardihoods  continue  the 
manliness  to  which  the  military  mind  so 
faithfully  clings.  Martial  virtues  must  be 
the  enduring  cement;  intrepidity,  con- 
tempt of  softness,  surrender  of  private 
interest,  obedience  to  command,  must 
still  remain  the  rock  upon  which  states  are 
built — unless,  indeed,  we  wish  for  danger- 
ous reactions  against  commonwealths  fit 
only  for  contempt,  and  liable  to  invite 
attack  whenever  a  center  of  crystallization 
for  military-minded  enterprise  gets  formed 
anywhere  in  their  neighborhood. 

The  war  party  is  assuredly  right  in 
affirming  and  reaffirming  that  the  martial 
virtues,  although  originally  gained  by  the 
race  through  war,  are  absolute  and  per- 
manent human  goods.  Patriotic  pride 
and  ambition  in  their  military  form  are, 
after  all,  only  specifications  of  a  more 
general  competitive  passion.  They  are 
its  first  form,  but  that  is  no  reason  for 
supposing  them  to  be  its  last  form.  Men 
now  are  proud  of  belonging  to  a  conquering 


nation,  and  without  a  murmur  they  lay 
down  their  persons  and  their  wealth,  if 
by  so  doing  they  may  fend  off  subjection. 
But  who  can  be  sure  that  other  aspects  of 
one's  country  may  not,  with  time  and 
education  and  suggestion  enough,  come  to 
be  regarded  with  similarly  effective  feeling 
of  pride  and  shame?  Why  should  men 
not  some  day  feel  that  it  is  worth  a  blood 
tax  to  belong  to  a  collectivity  superior  in 
any  ideal  respect?  Why  should  they  not 
blush  with  indignant  shame  if  the  com- 
munity that  owns  them  is  vile  in  any  way 
whatsoever?  Individuals,  daily  more 
numerous,  now  feel  this  civic  passion. 
It  is  only  a  question  of  blowing  on  the 
spark  till  the  whole  population  gets  incan- 
descent, and  on  the  ruins  of  the  old  mor- 
als of  military  honor,  a  stable  system  of 
morals  of  civic  honor  builds  itself  up. 
What  the  whole  community  comes  to  be- 
lieve in  grasps  the  individual  as  in  a  vise. 
The  war  function  has  grasped  us  so  far; 
but  constructive  interests  may  some  day 
seem  no  less  imperative,  and  impose  on  the 
individual  a  hardly  lighter  burden. 

Let  me  illustrate  my  idea  more  con- 
cretely. There  is  nothing  to  make  one 
indignant  in  the  mere  fact  that  life  is  hard, 
that  men  should  toil  and  suffer  pain. 
The  planetary  conditions  once  for  all  are 
such,  and  we  can  stand  it.  But  that  so 
many  men,  by  mere  accidents  of  birth 
and  opportunity,  should  have  a  life  of 
nothing  else  but  toil  and  pain  and  hardness 
and  inferiority  imposed  upon  them,  should 
have  no  vacation,  while  others  natively 
no  more  deserving  never  get  any  taste  of 
this  campaigning  life  at  all, — this  is  ca- 
pable of  arousing  indignation  in  reflective 
minds.  It  may  end  by  seeming  shameful 
to  all  of  us  that  some  of  us  have  nothing 
but  campaigning,  and  others  nothing  but 
unmanly  ease.  If  now — and  this  is  my 
idea — there  were,  instead  of  military 
conscription  a  conscription  of  the  whole 
youthful  population  to  form  for  a  certain 
number  of  years  a  part  of  the  army  en- 
listed against  Nature,  the  injustice  would 
tend  to  be  evened  out,  and  numerous  other 
goods  to  the  commonwealth  would  follow. 
The  military  ideals  of  hardihood  and  dis- 


cipline would  be  wrought  into  the  growing 
fiber  of  the  people;  no  one  would  remain 
blind  as  the  luxurious  classes  now  are 
blind,  to  man's  real  relations  to  the  globe 
he  lives  on,  and  to  the  permanently  sour 
and  hard  foundations  of  his  higher  life. 
To  coal  and  iron  mines,  to  freight  trains, 
to  fishing  fleets  in  December,  to  dish- 
washing, clothes  washing,  and  window 
washing,  to  road  building  and  tunnel 
making,  to  foundries  and  stokeholes,  and 
to  the  frames  of  skyscrapers,  would  our 
gilded  youths  be  drafted  off,  according  to 
their  choice,  to  get  the  childishness  knock- 
ed out  of  them,  and  to  come  back  into 
society  with  healthier  sympathies  and 
soberer  ideas.  They  would  have  paid 
their  blood  tax,  done  their  own  part  in 
the  immemorial  human  warfare  against 
nature,  they  would  tread  the  earth  more 
proudly,  the  women  would  value  them 
more  highly,  they  would  be  better  fathers 
and  teachers  of  the  following  generation. 

Such  a  conscription,  with  the  state  of 
public  opinion  that  would  have  required 
it,  and  the  many  moral  fruits  it  would 
bear,  would  preserve  in  the  midst  of  a 
pacific  civilization  the  manly  virtues 
which  the  military  party  is  so  afraid  oi 
seeing  disappear  in  peace.  We  should  get 
toughness  without  callousness,  authority 
with  as  little  criminal  cruelty  as  possible, 
and  painful  work  done  cheerily  because 
the  duty  is  temporary,  and  threatens  not, 
as  now,  to  degrade  the  whole  remainder  of 
one's  life.  I  spoke  of  the  "moral  equiva- 
lent" of  war.  So  far,  war  has  been  the 
only  force  that  can  discipline  a  whole  com- 
munity, and  until  an  equivalent  discipline 
is  organized,  I  believe  that  war  must  have 
its  way.  But  I  have  no  serious  doubt 
that  the  ordinary  pride  and  shames  of 
social  man,  once  developed  to  a  certain 
intensity,  are  capable  of  organizing  such  a 
moral  equivalent  as  I  have  sketched,  or 
some  other  just  as  effective  for  preserving 
manliness  of  type.  It  is  but  a  question 
of  time,  of  skillful  propagandism,  and  of 
opinion-making  men  seizing  historic  op- 
portunities. 

The  martial  type  of  character  can  be 
bred  without  war.  Strenuous  honor 


ESSAYS 


537 


and  disinterestedness  abound  elsewhere. 
Priests  and  medical  men  are  in  a  fashion 
educated  to  it,  and  we  should  all  feel 
some  degree  of  it  imperative  if  we  were 
conscious  of  our  work  as  an  obligatory 
service  to  the  state.  We  should  be  owned, 
as  soldiers  are  by  the  army,  and  our  pride 
would  rise  accordingly.  We  could  be  poor, 
then,  without  humiliation,  as  army  officers 
now  are.  The  only  thing  needed  hence- 
forward is  to  inflame  the  civic  temper  as 
past  history  has  inflamed  the  military 
temper.  H.  G.  Wells,  as  usual,  sees  the 
center  of  the  situation.  "  In  many  ways," 
he  says,  "military  organization  is  the  most 
peaceful  of  activities.  When  the  con- 
temporary man  steps  from  the  street,,  of 
clamorous  insincere  advertisement,  push, 
adulteration,  underselling  and  intermit- 
tent employment,  into  the  barrack  yard, 
he  steps  on  to  a  higher  social  plane,  into 
an  atmosphere  of  service  and  cooperation 
and  of  innnitelymorehonorableemulations. 
Here  at  least  men  are  not  flung  out  of 
employment  to  degenerate  because  there 
is  no  immediate  work  for  them  to  do. 
They  are  fed  and  drilled  and  trained  for 
better  services.  Here  at  least  a  man  is 
supposed  to  win  promotion  by  self- 
forgetfulness  and  not  by  self-seeking. 
And  beside  the  feeble  and  irregular  en- 
dowment of  research  by  commercialism, 
its  little  short-sighted  snatches  at  profit 
by  innovation  and  scientific  economy,  see 
how  remarkable  is  the  steady  and  rapid 
development  of  method  and  appliances 
in  naval  and  military  affairs!  Nothing  is 
more  striking  than  to  compare  the  prog- 
ress of  civil  conveniences  which  has  been 
left  almost  entirely  to  the  trader,  to  the 
progress  in  military  apparatus  during 
the  last  few  decades.  The  house  appli- 
ances of  to-day,  for  example,  are  little 


better  than  they  were  fifty  years  ago. 
A  house  of  to-day  is  still  almost  as  ill- 
ventilated,  badly  heated  by  wasteful 
fires,  clumsily  arranged  and  furnished  as 
the  house  of  1858.  Houses  a  couple  of 
hundred  years  old  are  still  satisfactory 
places  of  residence,  so  little  have  our 
standards  risen.  But  the  rule  or  battle- 
ship of  fifty  years  ago  was  beyond  all 
comparison  inferior  to  those  we  possess; 
in  power,  hi  speed,  in  convenience  alike. 
No  one  has  a  use  now  for  such  superan- 
nuated things." 

Wells  adds  that  he  thinks  that  the  con- 
ceptions of  order  and  discipline,  the  tradi- 
tion of  service  and  devotion,  of  physical 
fitness,  unstinted  exertion,  and  universal 
responsibility,  which  universal  military 
duty  is  now  teaching  European  nations, 
will  remain  a  permanent  acquisition,  when 
the  last  ammunition  has  been  used  in  the 
fireworks  that  celebrate  the  final  peace.  I 
believe  as  he  does.  It  would  be  simply 
preposterous  if  the  only  force  that  could 
work  ideals  of  honor  and  standards  of 
efficiency  into  English  or  American  na- 
tures should  be  the  fear  of  being  killed 
by  the  Germans  or  the  Japanese.  Great 
indeed  is  Fear;  but  it  is  not,  as  our  mili- 
tary enthusiasts  believe  and  try  to  make 
us  believe,  the  only  stimulus  known  for 
awakening  the  higher  ranges  of  men's 
spiritual  energy.  The  amount  of  altera- 
tion in  public  opinion  which  my  Utopia 
postulates  is  vastly  less  than  the  difference 
between  the  mentality  of  those  black  war- 
riors who  pursued  Stanley's  party  on  the 
Congo  with  their  cannibal  war  cry  of 
"  Meat !  Meat ! "  and  that  of  the  "  general 
staff"  of  any  civilized  nation.  History 
has  seen  the  latter  interval  bridged  over: 
the  former  one  can  be  bridged  over  much 
more  easily. 


538 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  (1850-1894) 

This  narrator  of  romantic  stories  of  England  and  the  South  Seas  has  also  proved  himself  a  most 
charming  writer  of  the  familiar  essay.  The  essay  selected  for  study  should  prove  an  excellent  tonic  for 
any  one  who  has  taken  an  over-dose  of  the  social  criticism  which  the  other  Victorian  essayists  offer  us 
for  the  good  of  our  souls  and  our  future  amendment.  Stevenson's  style  would  bear  careful  study  as 
the  work  of  a  man  who  deliberately  set  out  to  become  a  writer  of  excellence. 


JEs  TRIPLEX* 

THE  changes  wrought  by  death  are  in 
themselves  so  sharp  and  final,  and  so  ter- 
rible and  melancholy  in  their  consequences, 
that  the  thing  stands  alone  in  man's  ex- 
perience, and  has  no  parallel  upon  earth. 
It  outdoes  all  other  accidents  because  it  is 
the  last  of  them.  Sometimes  it  leaps  sud- 
denly upon  its  victims,  like  a  Thug; 
sometimes  it  lays  a  regular  siege  and 
creeps  upon  their  citadel  during  a  score 
of  years.  And  when  the  business  is 
done,  there  is  sore  havoc  made  in  other 
people's  lives,  and  a  pin  knocked  out  by 
which  many  subsidiary  friendships  hung 
together.  There  are  empty  chairs,  soli- 
tary walks,  and  single  beds  at  night. 
Again,  in  taking  away  our  friends,  death 
does  not  take  them  away  utterly,  but 
leaves  behind  a  mocking,  tragical,  and 
soon  intolerable  residue,  which  must  be 
hurriedly  concealed.  Hence  a  whole  chap- 
ter of  sights  and  customs  striking  to  the 
mind,  from  the  pyramids  of  Egypt  to  the 
gibbets  and  dule  trees  of  mediaeval  Europe. 
The  poorest  persons  have  a  bit  of  pageant 
going  towards  the  tomb;  memorial  stones 
are  set  up  over  the  least  memorable; 
and,  in  order  to  preserve  some  show  of 
respect  for  what  remains  of  our  old  loves 
and  friendships,  we  must  accompany  it 
with  much  grimly  ludicrous  ceremonial, 
and  the  hired  undertaker  parades  before 
the  door.  All  this,  and  much  more  of  the 
same  sort,  accompanied  by  the  eloquence 
of  poets,  has  gone  a  great  way  to  put  hu- 
manity in  error;  nay,  in  many  philoso- 
phies the  error  has  been  embodied  and 
laid  down  with  every  circumstance  of 
logic;  although  in  real  life  the  bustle  and 
swiftness,  in  leaving  people  little  time  to 

•Reprinted  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  author- 
ized publishers  of  Stevenson's  works. 


think,  have  not  left  them  time  enough  to 
go  dangerously  wrong  in  practice. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  although  few  things 
are  spoken  of  with  more  fearful  whisper- 
ings than  this  prospect  of  death,  few  have 
less  influence  on  conduct  under  healthy 
circumstances.  We  have  all  heard  of 
cities  in  South  America  built  upon  the  side 
of  fiery  mountains,  and  how,  even  in  thic 
tremendous  neighborhood,  the  inhabitants 
are  not  a  jot  more  impressed  by  the  solem- 
nity of  mortal  conditions  than  if  they 
were  delving  gardens  in  the  greenest  corner 
of  England.  There  are  serenades  and 
suppers  and  much  gallantry  among  the 
myrtles  overhead;  and  meanwhile  the 
foundation  shudders  underfoot,  the  bowels 
of  the  mountain  growl,  and  at  any  mo- 
ment living  ruin  may  leap  sky-high  into 
the  moonlight,  and  tumble  man  and  his 
merry-making  in  the  dust.  In  the  eyes 
of  very  young  people,  and  very  dull  old 
ones,  there  is  something  indescribably 
reckless  and  desperate  in  such  a  picture. 
It  seems  not  credible  that  respectable  mar- 
ried people,  with  umbrellas,  should  find 
appetite  for  a  bit  of  supper  within  quite 
a  long  distance  of  a  fiery  mountain;  ordi- 
nary life  begins  to  smell  of  high-handed 
debauch  when  it  is  carried  on  so  close  to  a 
catastrophe;  and  even  cheese  and  salad, 
it  seems,  could  hardly  be  relished  in  such 
circumstances  without  something  like  a 
defiance  of  the  Creator.  It  should  be  a 
place  for  nobody  but  hermits  dwelling  in 
prayer  and  maceration,  or  mere  born- 
devils  drowning  care  in  a  perpetual 
carouse. 

And  yet,  when  one  comes  to  think  upon 
it  calmly,  the  situation  of  these  South 
American  citizens  forms  only  a  very  pale 
figure  for  the  state  of  ordinary  mankind. 
This  world  itself,  travelling  blindly  and 
swiftly  in  over-crowded  space,  among  a 


ESSAYS 


539 


million  other  worlds  travelling  blindly  and 
swiftly  in  contrary  directions,  may  very 
well  come  by  a  knock  that  would  set  it 
into  explosion  like  a  penny  squib.  And 
what,  pathologically  looked  at,  is  the 
human  body  with  all  its  organs,  but  a 
mere  bagful  of  petards?  The  least  of 
,  these  is  as  dangerous  to  the  whole  economy 
as  the  ship's  powder-magazine  to  the  ship; 
and  with  every  breath  we  breathe,  and 
every  meal  we  eat,  we  are  putting  one  or 
more  of  them  in  peril.  If  we  clung  as 
devotedly  as  some  philosophers  pretend 
we  do  to  the  abstract  idea  of  life,  or  were 
half  as  frightened  as  they  make  out  we 
are,  for  the  subversive  accident  that  ends 
it  all,  the  trumpets  might  sound  by  the 
hour  and  no  one  would  follow  them  into 
battle — the  blue-peter  might  fly  at  the 
truck,  but  who  would  climb  into  a  sea- 
going ship?  Think  (if  these  philosophers 
were  right)  with  what  a  preparation  of 
spirit  we  should  affront  the  daily  peril  of 
'the  dinner  table:  a  deadlier  spot  than 
any  battle-field  in  history,  where  the  far 
greater  proportion  of  our  ancestors  have 
miserably  left  their  bones!  What  woman 
would  ever  be  lured  into  marriage,  so 
much  more  dangerous  than  the  wildest 
sea?  And  what  would  it  be  to  grow  old? 
For,  after  a  certain  distance,  every  step 
we  take  in  life  we  find  the  ice  growing 
thinner  below  our  feet,  and  all  around  us 
and  behind  us  we  see  our  contemporaries 
going  through.  By  the  time  a  man  gets 
well  into  the  seventies,  his  continued  ex- 
istence is  a  mere  miracle;  and  when  he 
lays  his  old  bones  in  bed  for  the  night, 
there  is  an  overwhelming  probability  that 
he  will  never  see  the  day.  Do  the  old 
men  mind  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact?  Why, 
no.  They  were  never  merrier;  they  have 
their  grog  at  night,  and  tell  the  raciest 
stories;  they  hear  of  the  death  of  people 
about  their  own  age,  or  even  younger, 
not  as  if  it  was  a  grisly  warning,  but  with 
a  simple  childlike  pleasure  at  having  out- 
lived some  one  else;  and  when  a  draught 
might  puff  them  out  like  a  guttering  can- 
dle, or  a  bit  of  a  stumble  shatter  them  like 
so  much  glass,  their  old  hearts  keep  sound 
and  unaffrighted,  and  they  go  on,  bubbling 


with  laughter,  through  years  of  man's 
age  compared  to  which  the  valley  at 
Balaclava  was  as  safe  and  peaceful  as  a 
village  cricket-green  on  Sunday.  It  may 
fairly  be  questioned  (if  we  look  to  the 
peril  only)  whether  it  was  a  much  more 
daring  feat  for  Curtius  to  plunge  into 
the  gulf,  than  for  any  old  gentleman  of 
ninety  to  doff  his  clothes  and  clamber  into 
bed. 

Indeed,  it  is  a  memorable  subject  for 
consideration,  with  what  unconcern  and 
gaiety  mankind  pricks  on  along  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  The  whole 
way  is  one  wilderness  of  snares,  and  the 
end  of  it,  for  those  who  fear  the  last  pinch, 
is  irrevocable  ruin.  And  yet  we  go  spin- 
ning through  it  all,  like  a  party  for  the 
Derby.  Perhaps  the  reader  remembers 
one  of  the  humorous  devices  of  the  deified 
Caligula:  how  he  encouraged  a  vast  con- 
course of  holiday-makers  on  to  his  bridge 
over  Baiae  Bay;  and  when  they  were  in  the 
height  of  their  enjoyment,  turned  loose 
the  Praetorian  guards  among  the  com- 
pany, and  had  them  tossed  into  the  sea. 
This  is  no  bad  miniature  of  the  dealings 
of  nature  with  the  transitory  race  of  man. 
Only,  what  a  chequered  picnic  we  have  of 
it,  even  while  it  lasts!  and  into  what 
great  waters,  not  to  be  crossed  by  any 
swimmer,  God's  pale  Praetorian  throws 
us  over  in  the  end! 

We  live  the  time  that  a  match  flickers; 
we  pop  the  cork  of  a  ginger-beer  bottle, 
and  the  earthquake  swallows  us  on  the 
instant.  Is  it  not  odd,  is  it  not  incon- 
gruous, is  it  not,  in  the  highest  sense  of 
human  speech,  incredible,  that  we  should 
think  so  highly  of  the  ginger-beer,  and 
regard  so  litcle  the  devouring  earthquake? 
The  love  of  Life  and  the  fear  of  Death 
are  two  famous  phrases  that  grow  harder 
to  understand  the  more  we  think  about 
them.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  an  im- 
mense proportion  of  boat  accidents  would 
never  happen  if  people  held  the  sheet 
in  their  hands  instead  of  making  it  fast; 
and  yet,  unless  it  be  some  martinet  of  a 
professional  mariner  or  some  landsman 
with  shattered  nerves,  every  one  of  God's 
creatures  makes  it  fast.  A  strange  in- 


540 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


stance  of  man's   unconcern  and  brazen 
boldness  in  the  face  of  death! 

We    confound    ourselves    with    meta- 
physical phrases,  which  we  import  into 
daily  talk  with  noble  inappropriateness. 
We  have  no  idea  of  what  death  is,  apart 
from  its  circumstances  and  some  of  its  con- 
sequences  to   others;   and   although   we 
have  some  experience  of  living,  there  is 
not  a  man  on  earth  who  has  flown  so  high 
into  abstraction  as  to  have  any  practical 
guess  at  the  meaning  of  the  word  life. 
All  literature,  from  Job  and  Omar  Khay- 
yam to  Thomas  Carlyle  or  Walt  Whitman, 
is  but  an  attempt  to  look  upon  the  human 
state  with  such  largeness  of  view  as  shall 
enable  us  to  rise  from  the  consideration  of 
living  to  the  Definition  of  Life.    And  our 
sages  give  us  about  the  best  satisfaction 
in  their  power  when  they  say  that  it  is  a 
vapor,  or  a  show,  or  made  out  of  the  same 
stuff  with  dreams.    Philosophy,    in    its 
more  rigid  sense,  has  been  at  the  same 
work  for  ages;  and  after  a  myriad  bald 
heads  have  wagged  over   the  problem, 
and  piles  of  words  have  been  heaped  one 
upon  another  into  dry  and  cloudy  vol- 
umes without  end,  philosophy  has  the 
honor  of  laying  before  us,  with  modest 
pride,  her  contribution  towards  the  sub- 
ject: that  life  is  a  Permanent  Possibility 
of   Sensation.    Truly   a   fine   result!    A 
man  may  very  well  love  beef,  or  hunting, 
or   a  woman;  but  surely,  surely,  not  a 
Permanent  Possibility  of  Sensation!    He 
may  be  afraid  of  a  precipice,  or  a  dentist, 
or  a  large  enemy  with  a  club,  or  even  an 
undertaker's  man;  but  not  certainly  of 
abstract  death.    We  may  trick  with  the 
word  life  in  its  dozen  senses  until  we  are 
weary  of  tricking;  we  may  argue  in  terms 
of  all  the  philosophies  on  earth,  but  one 
fact  remains  true  throughout — that  we  do 
not  love  life,  in  the  sense  that  we  are 
greatly  preoccupied  about  its  conserva- 
tion; that  we  do  not,  properly  speaking, 
love  life  at  all,  but  living.     Into  the  views 
of  the  least  careful  there  will  enter  some 
degree  of  providence;  no  man's  eyes  are 
fixed  entirely  on  the  passing  hour;  but 
although  we  have  some  anticipation  of 
good  health,  good  weather,  wine,  active 


employment,  love,  and  self-approval,  the 
sum  of  these  anticipations  does  not  amount 
to  anything  like  a  general  view  of  life's 
possibilities  and  issues;  nor  are  those  who 
cherish  them  most  vividly  at  all  the  most 
scrupulous  of  their  personal  safety.  To 
be  deeply  interested  in  the  accidents  of  our 
existence,  to  enjoy  keenly  the  mixed  tex- 
ture of  human  experience,  rather  leads  a 
man  to  disregard  precautions,  and  risk 
his  neck  against  a  straw.  For  surely  the 
love  of  living  is  stronger  in  an  Alpine  climb- 
er roping  over  a  peril,  or  a  hunter  riding 
merrily  at  a  stiff  fence,  than  in  a  creature 
who  lives  upon  a  diet  and  walks  a  measured 
distance  in  the  interest  of  his  constitution. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  very  vile  non- 
sense talked  upon  both  sides  of  the  mat- 
ter: tearing  divines  reducing  life  to  the 
dimensions  of  a  mere  funeral  procession, 
so  short  as  to  be  hardly  decent;  and  mel- 
ancholy unbelievers  yearning  for  the  tomb 
as  if  it  were  a  world  too  far  away.  Both 
sides  must  feel  a  little  ashamed  of  their 
performances  now  and  again  when  they 
draw  in  their  chairs  to  dinner.  Indeed, 
a  good  meal  and  a  bottle  of  wine  is  an 
answer  to  most  standard  works  upon  th«> 
question.  When  a  man's  heart  warms  to 
his  viands,  he  forgets  a  great  deal  of  soph- 
istry, and  soars  into  a  rosy  zone  of  con- 
templation. Death  may  be  knocking  at 
the  door,  like  the  Commander's  statue; 
we  have  something  else  in  hand,  thank 
God,  and  let  him  knock.  Passing  bells 
are  ringing  all  the  world  over.  All  the 
world  over,  and  every  hour,  some  one  is 
parting  company  with  all  his  aches  and 
ecstasies.  For  us  also  the  trap  is  laid. 
But  we  are  so  fond  of  life  that  we  have  no 
leisure  to  entertain  the  terror  of  death. 
It  is  a  honeymoon  with  us  all  through, 
and  none  of  the  longest.  Small  blame  to 
us  if  we  give  our  whole  hearts  to  this  glow- 
ing bride  of  ours,  to  the  appetites,  to 
honor,  to  the  hungry  curiosity  of  the  mind, 
to  the  pleasure  of  the  eyes  in  nature,  and 
the  pride  of  our  own  nimble  bodies. 

We  all  of  us  appreciate  the  sensations; 
but  as  for  caring  about  the  Permanence 
of  the  Possibility,  a  man's  head  is  generally 
very  bald,  and  his  senses  very  dull,  be- 


ESSAYS 


S4i 


fore  he  comes  to  that.  Whether  we  re- 
gard life  as  a  lane  leading  to  a  dead  wall — 
a  mere  bag's  end,  as  the  French  say — or 
whether  we  think  of  it  as  a  vestibule  or 
gymnasium,  where  we  wait  our  turn  and 
prepare  our  faculties  for  some  more  noble 
destiny;  whether  we  thunder  in  a  pulpit, 
or  pule  in  little  atheistic  poetry-books, 
about  its  vanity  and  brevity;  whether  we 
look  justly  for  years  of  health  and  vigor, 
or  are  about  to  mount  into  a  Bath-chair, 
as  a  step  towards  the  hearse;  in  each  and 
all  of  these  views  and  situations  there  is 
but  one  conclusion  possible:  that  a  man 
should  stop  his  ears  against  paralyzing  ter- 
ror, and  ruii  the  race  that  is  set  before  him 
with  a  single  mind.  No  one  surely  could 
have  recoiled  with  more  heartache  and 
terror  from  the  thought  of  death  than  our 
respected  lexicographer;  and  yet  we  know 
how  little  it  affected  his  conduct,  how 
wisely  and  boldly  he  walked,  and  in  what 
a  fresh  and  lively  vein  he  spoke  of  life. 
Already  an  old  man,  he  ventured  on  his 
Highland  tour;  and  his  heart,  bound  with 
triple  brass,  did  not  recoil  before  twenty- 
seven  individual  cups  of  tea.  As  courage 
and  intelligence  are  the  two  qualities  best 
worth  a  good  man's  cultivation,  so  it  is  the 
first  part  of  intelligence  to  recognize  our 
precarious  estate  in  life,  and  the  first 
part  of  courage  to  be  not  at  all  abashed 
before  the  fact.  A  frank  and  somewhat 
headlong  carriage,  not  looking  too  anx- 
iously before,  not  dallying  in  maudlin  re- 
gret over  the  past,  stamps  the  man  who  is 
well  armored  for  this  world. 

And  not  only  well  armored  for  himself, 
but  a  good  friend  and  a  good  citizen  to 
boot.  We  do  not  go  to  cowards  for  tender 
dealing;  there  is  nothing  so  cruel  as  panic; 
the  man  who  has  least  fear  for  his  own  car- 
cass, has  most  time  to  consider  others. 
That  eminent  chemist  who  took  his  walks 
abroad  in  tin  shoes,  and  subsisted  wholly 
upon  tepid  milk,  had  all  his  work  cut  out 
for  him  in  considerate  dealings  with  his 
own  digestion.  So  soon  as  prudence  has 
begun  to  grow  up  in  the  brain,  like  a  dis- 
mal fungus,  it  finds  its  first  expression  in  a 
paralysis  of  generous  acts.  The  victim 
begins  to  shrink  spiritually;  he  develops  a 


fancy  for  parlors  with  a  regulated  tem- 
perature, and  takes  his  morality  on  the 
principle  of  tin  shoes  and  tepid  milk.  The 
care  of  one  important  body  or  soul  be- 
comes so  engrossing,  that  all  the  noises  of 
the  outer  world  begin  to  come  thin  and 
faint  into  the  parlor  with  the  regulated 
temperature;  and  the  tin  shoes  go  equably 
forward  over  blood  and  rain.  To  be  over- 
wise  is  to  ossify;  and  the  scruple-monger 
ends  by  standing  stockstill.  Now  the 
man  who  has  his  heart  on  his  sleeve,  and 
a  good  whirling  weathercock  of  a  brain, 
who  reckons  his  life  as  a  thing  to  be  dash- 
ingly used  and  cheerfully  hazarded,  makes 
a  very  different  acquaintance  of  the  world, 
keeps  all  his  ^pulses  going  true  and  fast, 
and  gathers  impetus  as  he  runs,  until,  if 
he  be  running  towards  anything  better 
than  wildfire,  he  may  shoot  up  and  be- 
come a  constellation  in  the  end.  Lord 
look  after  his  health,  Lord  have  a  care 
of  his  soul,  says  he;  and  he  has  at  the 
key  of  the  position,  and  swashes  through 
incongruity  and  peril  towards  his  aim. 
Death  is  on  all  sides  of  him  with  pointed 
batteries,  as  he  is  on  all  sides  of  all  of  us; 
unfortunate  surprises  gird  him  round; 
mim-mouthed  friends  and  relations  hold 
up  their  hands  in  quite  a  little  elegiacal 
synod  about  his  path:  and  what  cares  he 
for  all  this?  Being  a  true  lover  of  living, 
a  fellow  with  something  pushing  and 
spontaneous  in  his  inside,  he  must,  like 
any  other  soldier,  in  any  other  stirring, 
deadly  warfare,  push  on  at  his  best  pace 
until  he  touch  the  goal.  "A  peerage  or 
Westminster  Abbey!"  cried  Nelson  in  his 
bright,  boyish,  heroic  manner.  These  are 
great  incentives;  not  for  any  of  these,  but 
for  the  plain  satisfaction  of  living,  of 
being  about  their  business  in  some  sort  or 
other,  do  the  brave,  serviceable  men  of 
every  nation  tread  down  the  nettle  danger, 
and  pass  flyingly  over  all  the  stumbling- 
blocks  of  prudence.  Think  of  the  heroism 
of  Johnson,  think  of  that  superb  indiffer- 
ence to  mortal  limitation  that  set  him 
upon  his  dictionary,  and  carried  him 
through  triumphantly  until  the  end! 
Who,  if  he  were  wisely  considerate  of 
things  at  large,  would  ever  embark  upon 


542 


TYPES  OF  GREAT  LITERATURE 


any  work  much  more  considerable  than  a 
halfpenny  post-card?  Who  would  project 
a  serial  novel,  after  Thackeray  and  Dick- 
ens* had  each  fallen  in  mid-course?  Who 
would  find  heart  enough  to  begin  to  live  if 
he  dallied  with  the  consideration  of  death? 
And,  after  all,  what  sorry  and  pitiful 
quibbling  all  this  is!  To  forego  all  the 
issues  of  living  in  a  parlor  with  a  regulated 
temperature — as  if  that  were  not  to  die  a 
hundred  times  over,  and  for  ten  years  at  a 
stretch!  As  if  it  were  not  to  die  in  one's 
own  lifetime,  and  without  even  the  sad  im- 
munities of  death !  As  if  it  were  not  to  die, 
and  yet  be  the  patient  spectators  of  our 
own  pitiable  change!  The  Permanent 
Possiblity  is  preserved,  but  the  sensations 
carefully  held  at  arm's  length,  as  if  one 
kept  a  photographic  plate  in  a  dark  cham- 
ber. It  is  better  to  lose  health  like  a 
spendthrift  than  to  waste  it  like  a  miser. 
It  is  better  to  live  and  be  done  with  it, 
than  to  die  daily  in  the  sick-room.  By 
all  means  begin  your  folio;  even  if  the 
doctor  does  not  give  you  a  year,  even  if  he 
hesitates  about  a  month,  make  one  brave 
push  and  see  what  can  be  accomplished 
in  a  week.  It  is  not  only  in  finished 
undertakings  that  we  ought  to  honor  use- 
ful labor.  A  spirit  goes  out  of  the  man 
who  means  execution,  which  outlives  the 
most  untimely  ending.  All  who  have 

"Each  left  a  novel  unfinished  at  his  death. 


meant  good  work  with  their  whole  hearts, 
have  done  good  work,  although  they  may 
die  before  they  have  the  time  to  sign  it. 
Every  heart  that  has  beat  strong  and  cheer- 
fully has  left  a  hopeful  impulse  behind  it 
in  the  world,  and  bettered  the  tradition  of 
mankind.  And  even  if  death  catch  people, 
like  an  open  pitfall,  and  in  mid-career, 
laying  out  vast  projects,  and  planning 
monstrous  foundations,  flushed  with  hope, 
and  their  mouths  full  of  boastful  language, 
they  should  be  at  once  tripped  up  and 
silenced :  is  there  not  something  brave  and 
spirited  in  such  a  termination?  and  does 
not  life  go  down  with  a  better  grace,  foam- 
ing in  full  body  over  a  precipice,  than 
miserably  straggling  to  an  end  in  sandy 
deltas?  When  the  Greeks  made  their 
fine  saying  that  those  whom  the  gods 
love  die  young,  I  cannot  help  believing 
they  had  this  sort  of  death  also  in  their 
eye.  For  surely,  at  whatever  age  it  over- 
take the  man,  this  is  to  die  young.  Death 
has  not  been  suffered  to  take  so  much  as 
an  illusion  from  his  heart.  In  the  hot 
fit  of  life,  a-tiptoe  on  the  highest  point 
of  being,  he  passes  at  a  bound  on  to  the 
other  side.  The  noise  of  the  mallet  and 
chisel  is  scarcely  quenched,  the  trumpets 
are  hardly  done  blowing,  when,  trailing 
with  him  clouds  of  glory,  this  happy- 
starred,  full-blooded  spirit  shoots  into 
the  spiritual  land. 


THE   END 


A    000666318     1 


